


stealing more than years

by alexodian, rathalos



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Eventual Canon Divergence, Eventual Dark Brotherhood shenanigans, Gen, Recreational Drug Use, Thieves Guild shenanigans, Time Travel, boies being boies, we love j'zargo. we stan a king, we take control of the lore, you know what? shenanigans all across the board
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-10-25 03:43:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20717537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexodian/pseuds/alexodian, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathalos/pseuds/rathalos
Summary: “...This one is not in the place where he was before,” Za’jhan-Dar observes. “Where, exactly, are we?”Ak’Bhibi quirks a brow. “Markarth,” he says. “Nchuand-Zel.”Za’jhan-Dar stares at him. For a while. Then he stares some more. “You mean, Markarth, in Skyrim.”He laughs. “Yes, yes. Far from home?”(The Hero of Kvatch is a very tired Khajiit who is stranded two hundred years in the future by way of Ayleid ruins; the Last Dragonborn is an equally tired Khajiit who is extremely done with crawling through dungeons when all he wants to do is crawl into bed. They meet. Hijinks ensue.)





	1. first contact

**Author's Note:**

> welcome... to your worst nightmare. tentatively titled "SWITCH DRIFT 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO" up until the posting of this fic since we both play skyrim on the switch.

Ak’Bhibi has never particularly been fond of dungeon crawling. This is why he decided to run with the Thieves Guild, among other things. Well, not _why,_ not really. But it is a reason.

What matters is that Ak’Bhibi does not like being forced to sneak through infested, forgotten crypts and caves and ruins, and that is _exactly_ what this job demands of him.

Of course, of _course,_ they send him back to Markarth, back to where the guards hate him for having the audacity to be _pardoned,_ where Calcelmo sends him to kill that spider, Nimhe, that’s been tormenting the _useless_ guards, where he would have stolen the key if it wouldn’t have made it so difficult to grab the Stone of Barenziah from the Museum.

_Useless when they benefit everyone but me,_ he thinks, and he trudges into Nchuand-Zel.

It’s as he’s walking past a barred door—and isn’t that funny, something so primitive as a door bar in one of the Dwemer ruins so famed for technological advancement—that he hears a muffled cry.

“_Who’s there?_” asks the voice behind the door, quieted by a solid layer of metal separating it from Ak’Bhibi. He does _not_ jump. “_Open the door. Za’jhan-Dar knows you are there._”

“You are… Khajiit?” he settles on, once the hair on his neck smooths down. He had expected to find nothing but Nimhe. Certainly no one else _alive._

“_No, he is stuck in a dark room. Of course he’s Khajiit! Now open the door,_” the voice commands. What a rude voice. “_...Please._”

He considers leaving the voice, considers it seriously, but of course he cannot. He is too curious. And perhaps the voice could serve as bait, if that spider is as big as they say.

So he lifts the bar and opens the door, sneering at the grime that rubs into his palm pads, feeling like dwarven oil and dirt.

A figure—the owner of the voice, presumably—stumbles out of the dark room, swatting at the air in front of them. Clearing away dust, he supposes.

“Times like these, Za’jhan-Dar is especially glad to be Khajiit,” the stranger—Za’jhan-Dar—says. “Who are you, walker?”

“Ak’Bhibi,” he replies, eyes narrowing. “From a- a School, or a College, are you? Strange clothes for getting trapped in the ruins.” He has never seen _those_ robes walk the College of Winterhold. Or, Skyrim in general, but that matters little when dealing with his kind.

“...This one is not in the place where he was before,” Za’jhan-Dar observes, noticeably _not_ answering Ak’Bhibi’s question. “Where, exactly, are we?”

Ak’Bhibi quirks a brow. “Markarth,” he says. “Nchuand-Zel.”

Za’jhan-Dar stares at him. For a while. Then he stares some more. “You mean, Markarth, in Skyrim.”

It would be hard not to, so he laughs. “Yes, yes. Far from home?”

“_If_ this one had a home, it would be in Cyrodiil. So yes. Za’jhan-Dar had been exploring an Ayleid ruin when he stumbled into some... light-room-thing, and now he is here, stuck in a different ruin.”

“Cyrodiil? I’ve been, once. Almost twice.”

“You must have been a long time ago,” Za’jhan-Dar remarks. “Cyrodiil is a dangerous place nowadays, Oblivion gates opening all across the country. Za’jhan-Dar closed them, but daedra still roam the land.”

Ak’Bhibi licks, then, thinking. There was one he spoke to, from in the Soul Cairn, that spoke of Oblivion like this. One that had died a long time ago.

_At least he is not as old as Serana._

“You are lost in more than just location,” Ak’Bhibi says. “The time of Oblivion has long passed, for us. Now we deal with—_I _deal with—dragons.”

“Dragons,” Za’jhan-Dar says incredulously, shaking his head. “At least tell him it is still the Fourth Era.”

_Still_. That is good, at least. “Yes.”

“Would Za’jhan-Dar regret asking what year it is?”

“I—Well, he might.”

“...What year is it.”

“It is two hundred and three. Two hundred three.” Tonilia is always telling not to say _and_ with big numbers. Messes with bookkeeping.

“Ah,” Za’jhan-Dar says faintly, face blank. “Well. That is. Quite a lot of time. Say, five-claw, you wouldn’t know where the Thieves Guild is located, would you? Or the Dark Brotherhood. Za’jhan-Dar is not picky.”

“What, you see a fellow Khajiit and the first thing you ask is about Skyrim’s underworld?”

Za’jhan-Dar levels a look at him. Ak’Bhibi sighs.

“The Dark Brotherhood is here, yes, and the Thieves Guild—well, both are in a state. Though, I would wonder if this one knows how to steal anything more than years…?” Ak’Bhibi does not mention that the clothes he wears are from said guild. In due time.

“Funny,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “This one was legend. Worked under the Gray Fox himself. Wanted to become the Gray Fox. But he did not. Sadly. The cowl was cursed. And you? Capable of stealing anything more than the life out of our conversation?”

Ak’bhibi smiles at him, fangs as sharp as his grin. “Catty,” he mutters. Gray Fox is a legend, but he would not want to be him, not with what he knows of the lost cowl. He wonders how much he can trust _this_ self-proclaimed legend.

_Ask Karliah about him,_ his mind supplies. It is good advice.

“I am known to steal things other than life when it suits me. Which is often.”

“This one thinks we will get along,” Za’jhan-Dar says, eyes narrowed in an assessing gaze. “Yes. What are you doing, in these ruins?”

“Not stealing,” Ak’Bhibi huffs, and gestures forth. “There is a spider. Large. A key is her bounty, promised to me by Calcelmo. The—he is a wizard. Pesky guards will let me through his… _museum,_ once I kill her.”

“Guards,” Za’jhan-Dar spits. “What are they good for?”

“Their pockets,” he nods, sage-like. “Nothing else.” He does not have fond memories of these Markarth guards. It is mutual, he thinks.

Za’jhan-Dar’s eyes flash with amusement. “Then let us kill this spider, and be rid of the guards,” he says, stepping forward. “Where is it?”

Ak’Bhibi does not say where, but he beckons as he turns down the halls. Webbing covers the one he sets off down. He figures it is answer enough.

Za’jhan-Dar follows.

* * *

Za’jhan-Dar never expected to be transported across time and space, but if he were to say that was the weirdest thing to ever happen to him he would be lying.

(Sanguine. A party. Castle Leyawiin. Nobles, completely nude. _Za’jhan-Dar,_ completely nude. There is not much more to say.)

He is good at nothing if not adapting, so he takes a few minutes to orient himself—ceiling this way, floor that way, dead spider to the left—and it really is a large spider—and then he is okay.

He hangs around in the shadows of the Nchuand-Zel excavation site while Ak’Bhibi converses with an aging wizard. He swears he sees a flash of bronze at least once, and he’s sure he sees gold changing hands more than, but he tactfully keeps quiet lest the elderly Altmer notice Ak’Bhibi had left the ruins with one more person than he had started out with.

“You have the key?” he asks, after Ak’Bhibi has drawn away from the wizard and motioned for the two of them to keep walking.

“Yes,” he says, ears back, annoyed and visible, now that his hood is down. Za’jhan-Dar sees sapphire in one of them, next to a hole. “And a tax, for the trouble.”

Za’jhan-Dar nods in satisfaction. “Now, this museum. Dwemer artifacts only, or some… valuables?”

“I am not here for them,” Ak’Bhibi sighs. “Dwemer artifacts, mostly. A stone I will take. A cube, too. I am not sure what else, because I am here for _notes,_ of all things.”

“Notes,” Za’jhan-Dar says, grimacing. “How boring.”

“They are _important_ notes. But yes, very boring. How quiet can you be?”

“Very,” Za’jhan-Dar says. He rummages around in his satchel—miraculously, his potions had survived the trip across the fabric of reality—where are the ones with the square bottles? There they are. “These are potions for invisibility. He made them himself.”

Ak’Bhibi looks to reach for one before halting, looking like his hand had been slapped. “Invisibility? That is smart. Though, there may be… a problem.”

“A problem,” Za’jhan-Dar repeats neutrally.

“I… there is… perhaps I have one of my own,” he says, rooting through one of many packs strapped to him. Eventually—a golden elixir emerges. He drinks it immediately and grimaces.

“Ah, Potions of Strength,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Yes, this one often has need of them. He can make the potions if you need them in the future.”

It is as if Ak’Bhibi’s eyes begin to glow. “Oh, yes, we will get along well indeed.”

“Now will you be able to carry the potion?” Za’jhan-Dar says, holding out one of the bottles again. “Or should we drink it now?”

“Drink it now, and _then_ open the door?” Ak’Bhibi chuckles. “We have many doors to go through, my friend. Do you have that many potions?”

“And more,” Za’jhan-Dar assures.

Za’jhan-Dar focuses for a moment. By now, the motions are routine for him. He gathers his magicka into the palm of his hand, concentrates, lets go. Now he is silent. Next he uncorks his potions and tips it back, shuddering when the taste of vampire dust and the uniquely awful texture of melted-down daedra silk mix in his mouth. It is one of the worst-tasting potions he has, but all the stronger for it.

Maybe he should warn Ak’Bhibi. He eyes his companion speculatively. No. It will be funnier if he remains silent.

Ak’Bhibi swirls the potion for a moment, then drinks it down like he drank the Potion of Strength. He coughs, gags. His eyes are slitted as he glares, just for a moment, before he is gone.

_Ah, to be an alchemist,_ Za’jhan-Dar laments. _Appreciated by none. Reviled by many. And it wasn’t even my worst one…_

They make it to the door, past the guard, and quickly Ak’Bhibi uses his key. The door closes softly behind them, the guard none the wiser.

“Must have been the wind,” he comments.

Za’jhan-Dar shares an incredulous look with Ak’Bhibi as he hands him another potion. It is no matter; the two of them continue on past, quite frankly, garish displays of Dwemer automatons, scrap metal, and the like.

A floating pink stone catches his eye. The next second, it floats higher, and from under his chameleon shimmer Ak’Bhibi becomes, instantly, visible.

Za’jhan-Dar drags a hand down his face in disappointment. He fishes another potion out of his bag—who knows when he’ll be able to get more, damn Ak’Bhibi—but secretly, Za’jhan-Dar would have done the same, had he known there was a gem to steal.

He moves, quietly, over to Ak’Bhibi and passes the potion to him. When the both of them are hidden once more, they move on to the giant doors set in the back of the museum.

Za’jhan-Dar hears an intake of air, and he reaches for another potion as Ak’Bhibi pushes on the heavy metal, opening it with far too much effort.

Ak’Bhibi had said there were many doors. Za’jhan-Dar barely suppresses a sigh.

It’s going to be a long time before he goes outside again. He knows it.

* * *

“Do you think we lost them?” Za’jhan-Dar asks.

Ak’Bhibi dares to poke his head around the corner of the building they are hiding behind. “Yes,” he says decisively. “Wait. That guard might be looking for us. No, he is chasing someone else.”

Are those _Thieves’ _leathers?

“Someone _stupid._ At least _we_ are in the clear. Possibly. Probably.” He turns to his company. “Say, do have have any of those Strength—”

Where is Za’jhan-Dar.

Soon he finds him, crouched down by a flowering bush, carefully picking the flowers off their stems and storing them in one of the many satchels hanging off his waist.

“What are you doing,” Ak’Bhibi asks, flat.

“You said the coast was clear!” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Now, this one is gathering ingredients.”

“_This one_ will not be able to move for much longer, you see.” The augmented strength from the potion is waning, and he knows the will soon be burdened by too much weight.

“_Ach._ Za’jhan-Dar feels like you are using him for his potions,” Za’jhan-Dar says, but he gets up anyway and obligingly hands Ak’Bhibi a potion. He taps his foot impatiently while Ak’Bhibi downs the foul concoction, spitting as he recalls what ingredients he knows can go into such a drink. “Where is our next destination?”

Ak’Bhibi huffs, rifling through his pockets before he finds his bag of ingredients. _Where_ did he last put his—oh, well, there goes half his ingredients, tumbling out onto the road.

He picks up the small satchel of moonsugar and takes a tentative lick, ignoring the piles that he will need to pick up, and the ones that he will have to leave. Priorities.

“By the sands, this one cannot believe you just did that,” Za’jhan-Dar hisses, diving for the alchemy ingredients. “Void salts! Ice wraith teeth! A giant’s toe! These are priceless ingredients, you—you—”

He appears to give up on words, choking back his anger and frantically hoarding what little ingredients aren’t ruined. Mostly the herbs and plants, though he repockets some of the bear claws and at least one Taproot.

Ak’Bhibi licks at the moonsugar again. _Yes,_ that is much better, tasting nothing like the potions forced upon him today.

(He ignores the fact that he had asked for half of them.)

At last, when all he can salvage has been picked up, Za’jhan-Dar slowly straightens and gives Ak’Bhibi the evil eye.

“_You,_” he accuses, and says no more.

“I have more, you know,” Ak’Bhibi says, contemplating. “Those you can keep as, eh… payment? For your potions. More, you can keep, the ones I am willing to give up. Which will be many.” At least they will be put to use, then. The drawers in his house… they could use a cleaning.

“Oh,” Za’jhan-Dar says, countenance visibly brightening. “It is not so bad then, he supposes.”

“We will be traveling there soon, anyway. Well, not soon. First we must—” He stops, considering the sensitivity of this. Za’jhan-Dar may have flexible morals and an aptitude for what his Guild demands, but he is no member. He does not deserve to know _this._ There is too much, too soon.

“We must go to Winterhold,” he says, instead of saying more. “There is the College there. I think that it is in your interest to seek it out, yes?”

“Hmm. Yes, it is,” Za’jhan-Dar agrees. “How will we travel? By wagon? By horse? Za’jhan-Dar is sure there are, ah, a few… _extras_ in the stables, yes?”

He chuckles. “We will pay for a wagon, this time. Those in the stables… too conspicuous. And—I would not saddle a horse with my, erm, _burdens_.” He gestures, vaguely, to all of himself. There are about ten weapons too many on him, let alone everything else. The poor horses would break.

“Yes… this one sees how that would be a problem.” Za’jhan-Dar pauses consideringly. “Do we leave immediately? Or wait for morning?”

“Now.” They will need to stop later and rest, but Ak’Bhibi has always favored a nocturnal schedule. Now, especially, given their circumstances. _His_ circumstances. “It is a two-day trip from here to Winterhold. I have business there that must be dealt with _sooner_ than _later_.”

“Very well,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Off to Winterhold.”

Ak’Bhibi takes from the dead thief as they go, and gives her money to the wagon-driver. It seems only fair.

* * *

“Before we go in,” Za’jhan-Dar begins.

The two of them are just outside Moorside Inn. The wagon driver has already turned in for the night, but the two of them have only just finished securing their bags in the chest the driver had kindly provided to them.

For a fee. But Za’jhan-Dar plans to take back the money he’d spent on the ride.

“What is it? Is there a problem?” Ak’Bhibi asks.

“This one… has—an idea, if you will. Gold will line our pockets, if we do this right. Do you want to hear?” Za’jhan-Dar asks.

“Hmm. Go ahead,” Ak’Bhibi says.

“A group of bandits is moving through Hjaalmarch,” Za’jhan-Dar explains, gesturing toward the village behind them. “Soon, they will be here. Morthal. Would it not be convenient to have some form of protection against them? Za’jhan-Dar has enchanted daggers. He will sell them at a premium price. Maybe even legendary.”

Ak’Bhibi stares for a moment, then grins. “Oh, yes. I have a few—weapons, I wish to get rid of. Ones I can donate to this specific… cause.”

“Very good, very good,” Za’jhan-Dar says. He eyes the heavy pack on Ak’Bhibi’s shoulders. It is full of what would not fit into the chest. “Do you have any… robes? It would not do for a traveling healer to look as this one looks.”

“I have… yes, I have robes. Ones fit for an apprentice in restoration, even.”

“Perfect,” Za’jhan-Dar says, taking the proffered robes. They glow faintly, emanating a soft golden light. Definitely the real thing, and of a higher quality than anything he’d had back in the Mages Guild.

(He’d been expelled from the Mages Guild, but that is neither here nor there.)

“You enter behind Za’jhan-Dar. You are a gallant mercenary. You have been hired to protect this one as he travels from town to town, spreading the word about these bandits,” Za’jhan-Dar says, barely keeping himself from laughing. “Okay.” He moves to the door.

“Wait!” Ak’Bhibi looks suddenly… flustered. “I need—let me change into something more _fitting_—”

He goes back to the chest, rummaging through his things until he settles on a shining set of Nordic Armor. The pieces look heavy, and if Za'jhan-Dar _must_ admit, better than plain leather they slip over. Though, the way the helmet smushes Ak’Bhibi’s ears… “Okay, okay. I am a mercenary. A _gallant_ mercenary. I am ready.”

Za’jhan-Dar rolls his eyes and pushes open the door to the inn, breathing a sigh of contentment as warm air brushes over his face.

A guard, sitting in a chair near the entrance, nods at him as he walks by. “Got a lot of respect for the Restoration school,” he says, raising his drink toward Za’jhan-Dar. “Skyrim needs more healers.”

Za’jhan-Dar nods stiffly at the guard. Behind him, he senses that Ak’Bhibi is one wrong move away from laughing.

“Hail,” he says, raising an arm when he approaches the counter. “Have you heard the news, friend?”

“News?” the innkeeper asks, leaning forward on the counter. “What’s happened, healer? Anything I should know about?”

“Ah, good,” Za’jhan-Dar says, breathing a sigh of relief. “This one was worried the bandits had come here already. He heard news that a group of bandits is making its way through Hjaalmarch. Haven’t heard so much that guards have been able to catch them. It is frightening.”

“Oh,” the innkeeper says, eyes widening. “That’s—that’s quite awful.”

“It is,” Za’jhan-Dar says solemnly, doing his best to put on a sad expression. “As loathe as this one is to promote violence, there is one thing he despises more: bandits who think they have the right to harm civilians. That is why my School has sent me here, with enchanted weapons, and shields, to assist the people of Hjaalmarch in defending themselves.”

He glances at Ak’Bhibi, who is standing behind him stoically. “This is the mercenary he hired to protect himself. That’s how dangerous it is these days.”

“I’ll definitely be wanting one of those weapons, then,” the woman says. “I’m Jonna. Thank you so much for bringing the news. You’re staying the night, I assume?”

“Yes, then this one must move on, warn other settlements… if he can reach them before the bandits do,” Za’jhan-dar lies, eyes downcast. “Sometimes he is too late. Destruction, everywhere. Lives lost.”

“Take a room for free,” Jonna offers, voice gone soft and kind.

“We could never!” Za’jhan-Dar gasps. “This one is only doing what is right. He could not accept special treatment over this.”

“Very well,” Jonna says, smiling at him. “The room will be ten gold, then, and an extra ten if you want a second for your companion.”

Za’jhan-Dar counts out twenty from the pouch at his hip, easily letting the coins fall into her hand. He’ll have them back and more by tomorrow morning.

“Apologies. It’s been a long night. We will discuss payment for these weapons tomorrow,” he says. “At a premium rate, this one assures you. He will only need enough to keep surviving.”

“All right,” Jonna says. “Have a good night. You’re welcome to any food that’s in the room!”

* * *

Free of the second set of armor, Ak’Bhibi crawls onto the bed, letting out a weighty breath. The rolls here are stale, and the cheese has been out too long, but he does not have much of an appetite regardless. Not when they are a day away from Winterhold and he has the time to _question_ this new, strange companion of his.

“So,” he starts, unsure how much he can reasonably ask. “How did you manage to get here? The future, I mean. Skyrim, too.”

“Za’jhan-Dar was looking for an Ayleid statue. He had found one, once, and sold it—a foolish move, but profitable in the long run,” Za’jhan-Dar explains, and pauses. “There was a mer—his name is, was, Umbacano. He wanted to buy Ayleid statues from him for a ludicrous price. He was obsessed with ancient artifacts. This one was searching in a ruin and found a passage. Secret. Dirty, dusty. He went into it, expecting treasure.”

Za’jhan-Dar sighs heavily.

“There was no treasure, only a pressure plate, and blinding light. He fell—then there was the dark room, and the barred door,” he explains. “That was all.”

“Interesting,” Ak’Bhibi says. That answers some, but not enough. “So, you are from Cyrodiil?”

“Born and raised,” Za’jhan-Dar confirms. “This one belonged to a small traveling caravan, made up of fellow walkers, until he left to become an alchemist.”

“Ak’Bhibi was born, not raised,” he replies. “Was it nice, being raised there?”

“It was a good life,” Za’jhan-Dar says ponderingly. “Often he had to steal. It was fun. His parents taught him what little they knew of alchemy. He made potions to sell, and apprenticed under an expert in Bravil.”

“Bravil,” breathes Ak’bhibi, looking away and to the wall. “I barely remember the names, but I think. I think Bravil was where I was born. Had a typical Khajiit childhood, in some ways, but very soon we moved here. He got caught trying to go back, once. They wanted his—they wanted my head for it.”

“Za’jhan-Dar was… going to be executed also, once,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “He got lucky, because apparently the Emperor had dreams about him. Putting it that way, it sounds a little weird—this one doesn’t even remember why he was in jail. That was the last time in a long while he had any luck.”

“This one—_I_ am lucky.” He needs to stop falling to the Elsweyr manner of speaking. He hasn’t done that in… _years._ “I am the luckiest thief in all of Skyrim. Tamriel, maybe.”

Za’jhan-Dar sniffs haughtily. “Clearly, since you’ve been graced with Za’jhan-Dar’s excellent presence. He would be hard-pressed to find anyone luckier.”

“I think _you_ are lucky that I didn’t leave you to rot in those ruins,” he says back. “Lucky that I found you at all. Lucky that you have someone to show you around Skyrim, lest you be left to the caravans and the wildlife. And the Nords.”

“What’s wrong with Nords? Wait, don’t say anything. This one already knows,” Za’jhan-Dar says, and then he is quiet for a moment. “Maybe he is lucky. Just this once.”

“He is.” Ak’Bhibi waits, lets each of them think, before he continues. “But I am lucky too. You are much more fun than others I have been graced with. Not many here know how to stay quiet.”

“You are also more enjoyable company than Za’jhan-Dar has had in the past, save for Martin Septim. He was fun. Very fun,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “But there was also a Bosmer—short, hair that resembled a torch. He was annoying. Meant well. But Za’jhan-Dar couldn’t stand him. You are more fun than him.”

“_Martin Septim,_” he laughs. “The descendant of Talos, correct? Could he shout too?”

“Shout? No, not that this one knows of,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “But he was there when Martin Septim died. Shattered the Amulet of Kings, channeled the spirit of Akatosh. It was frightening—but mostly, it was sad.”

Ak’Bhibi frowns, considering it. Lets himself believe it’s true. “I have been delaying a war,” he mutters. “An inevitable war, at this point. I want no part of it, but—well. Do you know of Dragonborn?”

“He read about it once, in a book. Beyond that, no,” Za’jhan-Dar replies.

With a hollow laugh, Ak’Bhibi says, “You do now. Know of a Dragonborn. One, at least.” He is too tired, from so many things, to gesture to himself. It is not the grand reveal many others have, when he slays a dragon and takes their soul, but it is a reveal nonetheless.

“Ah,” Za’jhan-Dar says, realization dawning on his face. “It would appear… we have more in common than Za’jhan-Dar had thought. Prophecy, destiny. To tell you the truth, Za’jhan-Dar does not care for it, now that it’s over.”

“I do not care for it _now._” Ak’Bhibi spits. “I want no warrior’s glory. No fancy titles. I covet much, but not that.”

Za’jhan-Dar sighs. It’s perhaps the most expressive noise he’s made this entire day.

“Yes, that is often how it goes. How it went for me. While this one traveled with Martin Septim, he delayed destiny. While the prince was in Cloud Ruler Temple, deciphering the secrets of the Mysterium Xarxes, Za’jhan-Dar resorted to thievery and other crimes to distract himself from the inevitable. But it caught up with him.”

Ak’Bhibi groans. “I loathe the day I, too, am caught. Perhaps, when I am done with what I am doing, I will catch destiny myself. But that is no matter.” He breathes in a long breath, a breath that fills his lungs with the stress of yesterday and today and tomorrow, and he lets go of it as he sags into the bed. These thoughts are too much for tonight. He changes the topic. “You will enjoy the College, I think. I have only been once, but it is… much has changed, I think, from the schools you once knew. And,” he hesitates, “do be careful, with magic in Skyrim. The Nords are not often kind with that, either.”

“It is good that Za’jhan-Dar knows his way around a bow and arrow, then,” he says. “He can only hope he will enjoy the College. Do they allow necromancy? That is what got him expelled from the Mages Guild in Cyrodiil.”

“_Necromancy,_” Ak’Bhibi repeats. “Oh, you’ll fit in well. Though allowed, I do not think it is necessarily _encouraged_—but the College is in such shambles. If you are quiet about it, you will find that half of the students dabble with the dead.”

“That is good to hear. And just so you know—it was only a little reanimation. Za’jhan-Dar was never performing… _profane_ rituals, or anything of the sort,” Za’jhan-Dar says, sounding a little defensive.

Ak’Bhibi stares, and he laughs. “I don’t care what you did. Do as you wish, as long as it doesn’t get _me_ killed. Not only would that be rude, it would put a damper on so many of my plans with the Princes. If I were to die _now…_” He does not want to think of what would happen to his soul.

“Daedric worship?” Za’jhan-Dar questions. “This one has had his fair share of the Princes himself. And do not worry. Za’jhan-Dar is not in the habit of killing his friends.” And then, in an undertone, he adds, “_Mostly._”

Ak’Bhibi takes note, and he would say more, but instead he yawns. Maybe it is time they rest. Tomorrow will be a long day of traveling, and they have their weapons to sell in the morning. He does _not_ wish to fall asleep with an enchanted weapon in his arms.

_Za’jhan-Dar would like Brynjolf,_ he thinks, smile splitting his muzzle.

“I think. I think it is time that I go to bed. Which room is mine?”

“This one, I think,” Za’jhan-Dar says, getting to his feet and stretching out his arms. “See you in the morning. Tomorrow there will be gold.”

* * *

Za’jhan-Dar is off to a bright and early start. He tells the wagon driver to wait outside for them, coupled with a hearty bribe, and he puts on his healer face and sells weapons.

Which is hilarious and will never stop being hilarious.

“This one does not wish to overcharge you,” he explains to Jonna and the man standing next to her—Falion, her brother. “So he thinks two hundred fifty septims apiece for a sword, and two hundred for a dagger.”

“That’s cheaper than we’d normally get,” Falion says under his breath. “We should buy in bulk. Redistribute to the rest of the town.”

“Let’s do it,” Jonna says.

In the end, he sells ten swords and five daggers. Three thousand, five hundred septims is nothing to sneeze at, and while Jonna and Falion head over to the smithy to talk redistribution, Za’jhan-Dar quickly ushers Ak’Bhibi out the door and into the back of the wagon.

“Soon, they will discover he used only petty soul gems for the daggers,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “But we will be gone before that.”

“We will be freezing, by then,” mutters Ak’Bhibi, who is busy trying to organize more things than he should reasonably be bringing with him. When did he get another axe?

“Freezing?” Za’jhan-Dar asks. “Why would you think that?”

“Don’t be rude,” he says back. “Winterhold—We are in Skyrim, and Winterhold is _north._”

“For a moment, this one forgot where we were headed,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Maybe he will find an enchanting station and charm these robes to resist the cold…”

Ak’Bhibi nods, lost in his sorting. Visible are many things—this bag in particular has gems in it, along with jewelry. Some glow with enchantments. Easily, a fortune is in that bag alone.

“For now,” Za’jhan-Dar says as the wagon driver urges the horses into motion, “how far do you suppose we are from this College? It has been so long since Za’jhan-Dar has seen a map of Skyrim.”

Ak’Bhibi stills, then sighs, brow-marks drawn together. “Of course,” he mutters, going into one of few packs still on him and opening a notebook. He hands over a page that unfolds into—a map.

“This one is a fool,” he says. “Here you go.”

“This one gives his thanks,” Za’jhan-Dar says, grimacing at the thought of being stuck in this cart for another twenty-four hours or more. His legs will kill him, if his stomach doesn’t first. “Hmm. Halfway there, then. Just what I needed, another day of motion sickness.”

“You do not know motion sickness until you know the seas,” Ak’Bhibi grumbles. “Pirates—how do they do it?”

“Za’jhan-Dar does not know it, and he does not care to know it,” Za’jhan-Dar says, shuddering at the mere thought. “It is good that Za’jhan-Dar has no wish to become a pirate.”

“Khajiit are not fit for it. Not most. Argonians… they can take their seas and never come back. Not all of them, of course. But there are some that I have had the displeasure of meeting.” Ak’Bhibi glowers, hand deep into a bag of what looks to be clothing and armor. It rattles unsettlingly when he moves. Za’jhan-Dar wonders if it is enchanted not to burst, despite its lack of magicka sheen. “Pirate Argonians are not company to trust.”

“If he can help it, this one will never go near the sea,” Za’jhan-Dar promises.

Ak’Bhibi rolls his eyes. “Windhelm has docks, you know.”

Za’jhan-Dar mimes gagging.

* * *

Winterhold is as cold as ever. Ak’Bhibi’s fur is, by now, suited for somewhere colder than the desert, but he thinks he will never be able to withstand the chill that sets in while they walk the cobblestone streets of the once-ruined town.

They do not stop at The Frozen Hearth. Instead, they continue on, up the path to the College. Za’jhan-Dar earns his right to enter by demonstrating a simple Illusion spell, but before Faralda can drag him away and show him the many wonders of the College of Winterhold, Ak’Bhibi pulls him aside.

“Za’jhan-Dar. I… have my business to take care of, but I will be back in no more than a handful of hours. If you are looking for someone to share your interests with to fill the time, I’m sure it will not be difficult.” He does not mention the ones he suspects—Za’jhan-Dar can find them on his own. It will keep him busy enough while he does what he must.

“Of course,” Za’jhan-Dar says easily. “Is this one wrong to assume we will travel together after you have taken care of your—business?”

“We will.” He will make a fine thief, once Ak’Bhibi can be sure that the guild isn’t falling apart as they speak. Or assassin, if he can remember the password that woman—Astrid—gave him. “You will need a guide around Skyrim, no?”

“Yes, that’s right. Za’jhan-Dar had forgotten about the certain… organizations, shall we say, he had asked after,” Za’jhan-Dar says thoughtfully. “Very well. This one will meet you back in the courtyard in three hours. Four if you are not there in three.”

“Five, if my luck does not override my associate’s,” he mutters, and he makes his way to the Hall of Attainment.

Enthir is in his room, looking far more calm than the shadow Karliah makes against the wall. “Took you long enough,” he says, without much bite. Even Ak’Bhibi, who had never known Gallus, understands the importance of the pages he carries. The stakes that come with them.

He hands them over.

They are a bit hard to read, he knows, and Enthir quirks his brow when he sees them. After about five minutes—minutes that are spent silent between them—he sets them down. “Look, this is a great start, but—this is an entire _language_ I’m looking at here. This is going to take at least a day to decipher, if not a week.”

“What?” Karliah says. “We need to know what’s in that journal. It’s all I, we, have left of Gallus.” Ak’Bhibi wonders if she thinks of anything else. “If we know what he was thinking, what kind of dirt he had on Mercer, we’ll be able to stop him before—before he does this Guild any more harm.”

“I’m _sorry,_” Enthir snaps, sounding anything but, “that I can’t rush this. All I can tell you is that I _might_ have something for you by tomorrow. These rubbings—_rubbings,_ of all things, I won’t even _ask_—are not exactly easy to read from_._”

She moves towards him. “_Might?_”

“Karliah. You know these kinds of things take time—”

“_Enthir!_ This belonged to Gallus! It was _his _journal!”

“I _know_ that!”

Ak’Bhibi feels his ears press against his skull. He does not like seeing this kind of infighting. Especially between _them._

(They worked together on that arrow, after all.)

He takes a step forward, ignores how many boundaries he is breaking, and places his hand on Karliah’s shoulder. She turns, looking about ready to stab him, and—he does not wish to become reanimation fodder for the students of the College, but he bristles anyway.

“You can wait another day,” he says. Spits, maybe. “Let your mage work. There are other things to keep busy with. Do you have a plan for talking to the Guild, once you know what Mercer may have done? No, you do not, do you.”

Karliah glares, but she stays quiet, and he considers it a victory. “Enthir,” she says instead. “I know you can rush. Have something ready by tonight.”

Her hands glow, for a moment, and then she is gone.

Ak’Bhibi stays for a bit longer, doing his best to read the journal. He does not get far. He had even read over the notes he took—though he didn’t understand them, he thought it would help. Somehow.

Eventually, he realizes there is something different on the page they are on. “What is that symbol?”

“Which one?”

“That.” He points to something that looks awfully out of place among the Falmer script.

“That’s… hmm.” Enthir checks his notes. Ak’Bhibi checks with him. “That’s not in here. Are you sure you got everything?”

He hisses, “_Yes._ I was thorough, despite my… company.” He thinks of the guards more than Za’jhan-Dar, who helped greatly with his potions. Who he must be getting back to, if this is going nowhere. “Speaking of company. I brought someone.”

“Brought? As in, to the College, or…?”

“Yes, and soon to… other things. You will like him. Later, you will meet him. Maybe soon. For now, this one—_I_ will leave you be, with your dead language. Good luck raising it. That is legal here, correct?”

“Who knows,” he hears him say, and he chuckles as he follows the stairs down.

* * *

“The main problem with these Flame Cloak scrolls is that they set Za’jhan-Dar’s clothing on fire,” Za’jhan-Dar explains on the walk back to the College. J’zargo keeps in stride with him, nodding in contemplation. “Now you owe him a new set of robes.”

“That can be fixed,” J’zargo says dismissively. “Did it set _you_ on fire, though? That is the real question. Mirabelle Ervine will supply you with new robes. It is a perk of studying at the College: they will replace what you break during your experiments. To an extent.”

“ … Somehow, no, it did not,” Za’jhan-Dar says.

“That is a simple fix, then,” J’zargo says. “I will have the new scrolls ready in a week. If things go well. How long are you planning to stay?”

“Depends,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “The College is nice, and Za’jhan-Dar is pleased to be a member, but he is not for the stationary life. He must travel.”

“I understand,” J’zargo says. “Too, I used to travel, and truthfully I would not mind setting out again… after I finish these Flame Cloak scrolls. I would not want to leave with a half-finished product.”

“Are you implying something?” Za’jhan-Dar asks as he pushes open the gate to the College. The metal is bitingly cold against his palms, even through the fur, but he is used to much worse.

“Depends,” J’zargo says.

Za’jhan-Dar snorts. J’zargo thinks of him as barely meeting the standard for competition, had admitted as much during their first conversation. It’s refreshing, here in Skyrim where no one knows his name or his face.

“Well. This one can make no decisions, as things are right now. But he will get back to you, maybe,” Za’jhan-Dar says.

“Works for me,” J’zargo says, shrugging. “You should talk to Mirabelle Ervine, if she hasn’t given you a room yet. Meanwhile, J’zargo will be in his room in the Hall of Attainment, working on this thankless project… ”

As J’zargo turns toward the Hall, Ak’Bhibi appears from its doors. He stops, looks J’zargo up and down, and lets out a snort. “Ah, yes. Za’jhan-Dar has found the other walker in these halls, yes?”

“He has,” Za’jhan-Dar says, and gestures to his own singed robes. “And gotten himself into a _state._ Courtesy of J’zargo.”

Ak’Bhibi blinks. “How did fire get involved? You are mages, nevermind—_why _did fire get involved? I was gone for not even three hours.”

“He was experimenting with Flame Cloak scrolls,” Za’jhan-Dar says, catching and returning J’zargo’s nod. He waves goodbye. “Wanted Za’jhan-Dar to test them on the undead. Wound up coming along and witnessing this one’s humiliation. Surprisingly, not a hair on Za’jhan-Dar’s body was harmed. Only his robes.”

“Interesting,” Ak’Bhibi says, watching the other Khajiit go. “I would not have though J’zargo could do anything productive, with all the hot air he breathes out. Of course it would be something with fire.”

Za’jhan-Dar laughs. “So you are acquainted with J’zargo. Do you know he offered to accompany Za’jhan-Dar on his future travels? That would be funny. He has no idea who Za’jhan-Dar is.”

“He has no idea who Ak’Bhibi is, either,” he says. His mouth forms a small, savage smile. “Maybe he will have to come along and find out. Yes, I like that idea very much.”

“Likely he will recognize who you are the instant we encounter a dragon. As for this one? He can get away with saying nothing,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Or spring it on him at the last moment. ‘J’zargo, these bandits are nothing compared to fighting Mehrunes Dagon himself. Did Za’jhan-Dar tell you about that? No? Must have slipped his mind.’”

Ak’Bhibi laughs. “Yes! Yes, that would be… oh, he is coming with, at least for some time.”

“How long are we staying, then? J’zargo gave Za’jhan-Dar an estimate of a week to finish his scrolls,” he says.

“We can stay that long. My business will not finish as quick as I thought, anyway. Maybe I will take up learning some spells I will actually use, in the meantime. And. Mehrunes Dagon—I forget that you have meddled so blatantly with the Princes.”

“Meddled. Ha. Za’jhan-Dar slaughtered an entire palace full of his most faithful servants. We are not on the best of terms, to put it lightly,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Za’jhan-Dar wonders what he is up to, these days… ”

“Nothing good, I believe,” Ak’Bhibi says. “Though, I have not exactly talked to him yet. It seems inevitable, with how many Princes I have already been… graced by.”

“Eh,” Za’jhan-Dar says, waving his hand back in forth in what approximates to a shrug. “It was nothing personal, really. Za’jhan-Dar does not care if you consort with him. Maybe a long time ago he would have, but not anymore.”

“There are others I like more than him,” he huffs. “Even ones that talked to _me_ before I talked to them. Ah… suppose, have you met with Sanguine…? He is a wild time.”

—_A party. Castle Leyawiin. Nobles, completely nude._—

“He has met with Sanguine,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Ah, the stories he could tell… ”

Ak’Bhibi’s tail twitches, excited. “This one has _stories_ as well. Or, one, at least. One he remembers only some of. One that involves a hagraven, a donkey, and Dibella.” He chuckles. “Dibella is not happy with me, I think.”

“_Well,_” Za’jhan-Dar says, impressed. “Za’jhan-Dar cannot say he has experienced something so… unique. Sanguine must have held out on him. “Ugh, let’s get out of this cold. J’zargo told Za’jhan-Dar to meet with Mirabelle Ervine.”

“Ah, of course. I can find her. Come, this way.”

Za’jhan-Dar follows Ak’Bhibi into the Hall of the Elements, down a small corridor and finally into a spacious circular room, glowing with the light of a magical fountain. Za’jhan-Dar stops to take it in for a moment. It’s so… different from the Arcane University.

Better in some ways.

“Ah, Ak’Bhibi!” Approaching them is a Breton woman, pleased smile on her face. “It’s good to see you back. You’ve been scarce lately. And who is this? A new student? Wonderful! You, what’s your name?”

“Za’jhan-Dar,” Za’jhan-Dar replies.

“I am Mirabelle Ervine, elemental mage and overseer of the newer ones who come to the College,” she introduces. “Have you got a room yet?”

“No,” Za’jhan-Dar says simply, a little overwhelmed by her enthusiasm.

“Ah, I suppose you wouldn’t. Well, we can’t have that. Follow me. I’ll take you to the Hall of Attainment, where everyone but the Arch-Mage stays. You don’t have to use the room, of course, and you don’t even have to live at the College to be a member of it—but it will always be here if you need it,” Mirabelle says, leading them back toward the doors at a brisk pace.

They cross the courtyard quickly, mindful of the snow that is just beginning to powder the ground, and Mirabelle leads the two up a spiral staircase and toward one of the empty rooms.

Za’jhan-Dar notes with mild displeasure that it does not appear to have a door. How _does_ one achieve privacy here, then?

“Thank you,” Za’jhan-Dar says, somewhat reluctantly, after his tour is over.

“It’s no problem at all,” Mirabelle says. “Of course you’re welcome to visit the library, use our Alchemy and Enchanting stations as you please, and attend lectures in the Hall of the Elements. We only ask that you buy your ingredients from us, give back to the College, you know.”

“This one understands, and will most definitely purchase as many alchemical ingredients as he can,” Za’jhan-Dar promises.

“Ah, so you’re an alchemist,” Mirabelle says knowingly. “You might want to meet with the Arch-Mage, then. He’s the only one among us who specializes in Alchemy, besides you, now! All right. I’ll let you get settled in now. And, by the way—you’ll find several sets of robes in the wardrobe in your room.”

She bids them goodbye and disappears down the staircase with a reminder that lectures are held every morning at eleven-o’clock. Za’jhan-Dar sighs.

“There is… so much to take in,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “It is late anyway. This one will search for some robes that are not so charred, and then he will sleep.”

Ak’Bhibi bids him farewell and goodnight, and he leaves him to his room.

* * *

Enthir does not have the diary translated.

Ak’Bhibi sneaks back in to see him later that night, but it is clear he is not even finished translating the symbols to script. Karliah is not pleased. But that is fine, because it gives him the time he needs to ask about these… recent developments.

Now, he has her alone, outside and atop the highest walls of the College. Her arms are crossed as she braces against the ramparts, while he crouches next to the stone well, tucked away from the wind’s prying grasp. Here, finally, he can ask her what he has been burning to ask.

“How old are you?” He starts with, and cringes.

She narrows her eyes. An answer does not come.

“Let me rephrase—were you alive when the guild was, erm, under different management?”

“No,” she answers, hesitating. “But I know our history. Why do you ask?”

“I am asking if you know the legends surrounding the Gray Fox. The legends of the Gray Cowl of Nocturnal. Its whereabouts.”

Karliah groans. “What, are you going to _look_ for it? Good luck. There’s been no trace of it for centuries. I’ve looked for it myself, you know. My best guess is that it was destroyed.”

“I may. Know something about it.”

“_You?_” She scoffs. “You are the newest member of our guild, I—”

“I am _not_ anymore, first off—” Ak’Bhibi huffs. This is not the time. He is still angry about it. “_My_ endeavors have attracted us attention. But I am not—okay.”

“No, you’re not,” Karliah says. He frowns.

“Look. I think I may know what happened to the last holder of the Cowl. Will you listen to me or not?”

After a long moment, she nods.

“Okay. You must be aware of the new company I have been keeping, yes?” Another nod. He continues. “He is Za’jhan-Dar. Apparently, he got lost in ruins. In time. Apparently, he stopped the Oblivion Crisis. Apparently, he worked under Gray Fox himself. All this, so he says.”

Karliah is still. She does not confirm anything, and it makes Ak’Bhibi restless, especially in the cold.

“So? You say you know the history—”

“Are you sure? That it’s him?”

He stiffens. “So it _is_ true?”

“Are you _sure?_” She presses. “How can you know it is him, after all this time—he _disappeared, _out of nowhere, out of history. Not like Gray Fox—but, could this not just be an impersonator trying to get to the Guild?”

He considered it, but. It is a paranoid thought. Za’jhan-Dar didn’t even know who _he_ was, what he was wearing. And, well. Ak’Bhibi has grown to trust those that long overstep their time, by now. “I think not. No, this one believes he tells the truth.”

“Then I _need_ to meet him. If he still has the Gray Cowl… we may be able to strike a deal with Nocturnal. One we have needed for years.”

Ak’Bhibi holds back his groan. _More_ deals with Daedric Princes? He should have suspected, eventually, it would lead back to them. Everything seems to these days. “Fine. Before Enthir finishes his project I will acquaint you. Please do not be rude.”

“You should learn to take your own advice,” she says as she takes her leave. Ak’Bhibi stays out there in the cold a little longer, burning with irritation and excitement and the ever-constant hunger, before he goes back to his quarters.

That night, he does not sleep.

* * *

In the end, Za’jhan-Dar fixes the problem of privacy by putting up a makeshift curtain in front of the door. That taken care of, he changes—finally!—into new robes, and promptly passes out on the bed.

He wakes to the smell of burning paper.

Groggily, he sits—less groggily, he shoots out of bed, frantically searching his own room for fire. He’d once done that—set a fire in his sleep. It had not been pleasant, to say the least.

Luckily the source of the fire does not appear to be in his room, which immediately leads him to suspect a certain J’zargo.

He stumbles out of the room, mind racing but body still protesting the horrors of being forced out of bed, down the stairs—was it left or right to J’zargo’s room?—he’ll just follow the smell.

“I swear this isn’t what it looks like,” says J’zargo when Za’jhan-Dar disovers him amidst a spectacularly on-fire scroll.

“… What is it, then?” Za’jhan-Dar asks.

“…”

“That’s what I thought,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Do you need me to fetch some water?”

He can conjure horrors from the depths of Oblivion, can summon fire and lightning and frost at his beck-and-call, but apparently, a bucket of water requires manual work. He makes short work of fetching it, hurrying back into the Hall of Attainment—not stopping to feel the cool air, stinging the end of his nose, chilling the place where his whiskers take root—and passes the bucket off to J’zargo, who dumps it all over his work desk.

“Let me guess, those were the ‘improved’ Flame Cloak scrolls,” Za’jhan-Dar says flatly.

“Would you believe me if I said no?” J’zargo asks, shaking his head in defeat. “Yes, they were. I can’t begin to know how I got it wrong. Maybe it is a project meant for another time.”

“Another lifetime, perhaps,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Za’jhan-Dar is going back to sleep. If you set something on fire again, at least contain the smell. It will take so long for it to clear out now.”

“What are you talking about? It’s nearly eleven. We need to attend the lecture,” J’zargo says, sounding a touch irritated.

“Za’jhan-Dar has no use for introductory lectures,” he says.

“Oh? Neither do I,” J’zargo says. “I only suggested it because I thought you would.”

“Glad we can come to an understanding,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “On second thought, this one is no longer sleepy. He will look for his traveling companion now. Don’t set anything else on fire.”

“You underestimate J’zargo’s talent! Out, out,” J’zargo shoos him.

Za’jhan-Dar shakes his head disbelievingly but steps out of the room anyway. J’zargo will be able to handle another fire.

Hopefully.

Now where did Ak’Bhibi say his room was? Or did he say at all?

(He did not.)

Za’jhan-Dar resorts to poking his head into various rooms until he finds the one Ak’Bhibi is in.

“Anything planned for today?” Za’jhan-Dar asks. “Or just waiting on your… business?”

Ak’Bhibi looks over his copy of _A Game at Dinner_ and shrugs. “I am waiting, but not actively, for… something that will likely not come for days. We _should_ do something, you know. Are you here to suggest, or…?”

“Well, this one was thinking of paying the Jarl—or, rather, his longhouse—a visit…”

Ak’Bhibi claps the book closed and grins. “Yes, that does sound like a fine way to start the day, doesn’t it? Let me get changed into something warmer and I can give you a, shall we say, _tour._”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hewwo and welcome to chapter 2!!!
> 
> cw: alcohol, drugs. za'jhan-dar and ak'bhibi both have a sweet tooth as well as a tendency to get drunk whenever possible.

Ak’Bhibi nearly forgets what he said to Karliah until he wakes, suddenly, to find a note at his bedside. One that simply reads,

> _Frozen Hearth._
> 
> _Bring him._

He sighs. _No time, no date… _but he knows what she wants, what it means. Enthir is—hopefully—done with his deciphering, or close to it, and by now she must have done her own research into the legitimacy of Za’jhan-Dar’s claims. Wait, didn’t he tell her he’d acquaint them before the journal was translated…?

Oh well.

Tonight, then, is the night.

For now, he groans and gets up, stretching his legs. Next time they plan on robbing the Jarl’s quarters, they should make sure he’ll be out for the day—spending a couple hours crouching in the rafters had been fun for absolutely no one involved.

_But we did not get caught,_ he thinks, in a voice sounding awfully similar to his new companion’s.

Over his Guild leathers he decides on the deep red drape of Adept Robes of Destruction, and sets off towards Za’jhan-Dar’s room.

He finds Za’jhan-Dar going over a pouch of jewelry—some he recognizes from their escapade in Winterhold—carefully, sorting out rings and necklaces. He doesn’t react to Ak’Bhibi’s presence other than to flick an ear in his direction.

“Do you have plans today? There is someone I want to introduce you to. Well, someones. Two someones.”

“Your contacts?” Za’jhan-Dar asks. “This one had no plans. Except, maybe, checking in on J’zargo. Za’jhan-Dar worries for him.”

“This one has abandoned being worried, personally. J’zargo will catch fire either way.”

“He’s determined to catch Za’jhan-Dar on fire, too,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Ever since the... _incident_ with the Flame Cloak scrolls, J’zargo has stuck himself to Za’jhan-Dar like a burr to fur.”

Ak’Bhibi chuckles. “Ah. He thinks of you as competition, yes? I forget he does not know who you are.”

“Za’jhan-Dar thinks it is funny,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “J’zargo barely believes this one is any match for him. But—let us not waste time on idle talk. You should tell Za’jhan-Dar what to expect, with your contacts.”

“Eager, are you?” Ak’Bhibi puts a hand on his hip. “You forget where we are. Not that I don’t trust most of the College, but there are…” He takes in a sharp breath. “_Others_ here.” He—He has completely forgotten. Za’jhan-Dar knows nothing of the Great War, does he? Nothing of the one about to begin, either.

Ah. Maybe that is what they can discuss before their meeting, then.

“Come, then,” Ak’Bhibi says, “I will show you a good place to talk when you wish not to be heard.”

Za’jhan-Dar nods and scoops the necklaces he’s holding into one pouch and the rings into another. He stores them into one of the cupboards in the room, locks it, and locks it again with an unfamiliar spell.

“Lead the way.” 

* * *

“It has been twelve hours,” Za’jhan-Dar bemoans. He’s considering picking up a new hobby. Juggling, maybe. With daggers. That are on fire. And poisoned. He’s that bored. The cellar of an inn is never a place where anything interesting happens—unless that particular brand of interesting happens to be murder. Za’jhan-Dar would know about that. “Za’jhan-Dar thought they would be here by now. It is… nearly ten-o’clock, now.”

“And they will come,” Ak’Bhibi grumbles. He is sat on the table, flicking his claws out and back in. “Though, frankly, I did expect more urgency out of them. I could have slept in.”

“Za’jhan-Dar also would have. He would have thought they would be raring for the chance to see one of their most prized possessions… he supposes the Thieves Guild has changed in recent years,” Za’jhan-Dar says.

Gone are the days of meeting Armand Christophe in the dead of night, gone are the days spent running aimlessly around the Imperial City in hopes of finding someone whose pockets or coffers were lined with gold, gone are the days of completing dangerous jobs for the Gray Fox. Now are the days of waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

“Forgive them for being skeptical, _oh great Hero of Kvatch._ They are not as used to meeting travelers of time as I. And, well. There is talk of a curse against the Guild. Things have not been great lately. Karliah is worried you mean harm.”

“…That is understandable,” Za’jhan-Dar says when the silence between the two has gone on long enough. “In Za’jhan-Dar’s day, there was also a curse, laid upon the Gray Cowl when someone stole it—five hundred years past, now. The Gray Fox and Za’jhan-Dar, we never got the chance to lift the curse. Za’jhan-Dar will not wear it. No one should.”

“Perhaps you will get the opportunity in this new lifetime,” Ak’Bhibi says, sliding back onto his feet. Stretching. Sitting back down. Scratching, idly, at the table with a singular claw.

Za’jhan-Dar hums, “Perhaps,” and then, before he can say anything else, he hears the sound of rapidly-approaching footsteps, and the door to the cellar opens.

“_Finally._” Ak’Bhibi gestures forth to his company. Bosmer and Dunmer, one dressed like a mage and the other what he can only assume is like a thief. “You have taken your time in getting here. Oh, but you were busy, yes? Always busy.”

“Hmm. Yes, busy,” the Dunmer says, slinking towards the two of them. The Bosmer follows at a more sedate pace. “This is your friend, I take it?”

Ak’Bhibi nods. “Karliah, Enthir. This is Za’jhan-Dar.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Za’jhan-Dar says.

“We’ll see about that,” Karliah responds. “Ak’Bhibi says you claim to bear the Gray Cowl of Nocturnal. I am one of her Nightingales, come to reclaim my Prince’s artifact. Give it to me.”

That is easy enough. He always has it with him, tucked away into one of the many satchels he carries around, warded heavily to deflect prying eyes. He takes it out, frowning, and hands it to her.

Karliah eyes it, then eventually takes it, feeling at the material. A long moment later, her shoulders soften. “This _is_ it. It has to be.”

“So that means—” Enthir starts. “You’re really him?”

“That depends on what you mean by him,” Za’jhan-Dar says.

Ak’Bhibi rolls his eyes. “Yes. It is him.”

“By the gods,” Enthir breathes. “I never thought—the Champion of Cyrodiil, lost forever—here, in Skyrim! In front of us. The rumors were true... You could do—anything! You could—I don’t even know what to say.”

Za’jhan-Dar’s eye twitches.

“Za’jhan-Dar could,” Za’jhan-Dar agrees, “but he finds he has done enough in recent years. Saving Tamriel from the fires of Oblivion is rather tiring. Now he is content to go wherever the winds take him.”

Enthir looks like he wants to say something else, but Ak’Bhibi cuts in, “You know, all this time we have been acquainted, Enthir, and not _once_ have you reveled about the things I could do. Should I be offended?”

“Oh?” Enthir quirks a brow. “And what would those things be, then?”

Ak’Bhibi takes in a harsh breath, shifting forward, and there is a change in the air that makes Za’jhan-Dar’s hair raise. Yet, the moment Ak’Bhibi opens his mouth, he clamps it shut again, one palm slapping over it, wide eyes snapping to his lap. He settles back onto the table, then, quiet.

“He’s the Dragonborn,” Za’jhan-Dar deadpans.

Enthir gasps, hand flying to his mouth. “You—_what—_Dragonborn!? Well, what are you doing here? Don’t you have to defeat whatever evil is plaguing Tamriel?”

Ak’Bhibi blinks, ears folding back.

“So are _all_ the major heroes of the past few centuries destined to be thieves? Murderers!?”

He does not reply, but Ak’Bhibi’s eyes are dark as they glower at the floor, claws back to flexing.

Za’jhan-Dar can empathize with that. He had carried out his fair share of Dark Brotherhood contracts and had given even more during his time as Listener, and he’d made a lifelong career of being a thief—so he knows better than most how people react when they find out he is the prophesied Champion of Cyrodiil, stumbling willingly into whatever trouble comes his way.

“If you all don’t mind,” Karliah says, voice cool, “we have business to attend to. Enthir, his journal?”

Shaking off his shock, Enthir nods. “I—Er, uh, yeah. Yes. Here it is. If the—if the _Dragonborn_ would be so kind as to get off the table, I could lay everything out for you.”

“There is a floor,” Ak’Bhibi mutters, but he gets up nonetheless.

Enthir sets his bag on the table and begins pulling out page after page covered in writing, and then finally the journal Za’jah-Dar has heard _so_ much about.

(Ak’Bhibi had mentioned it. Barely.)

“It should go unspoken, Za’jhan-Dar, but what you are about to see will _not_ be repeated to anyone outside this room,” Karliah warns.

Za’jhan-Dar nods in assent, and Karliah gestures for Enthir to speak. 

* * *

“This doesn’t tell us anything,” Ak’Bhibi says, after he finishes looking over Enthir’s version of the journal. It’s nothing perfect and nowhere near finished, which was _expected,_ but Ak’Bhibi had figured there would be something more—incriminating. Tangible, even.

Instead, the journal is mostly speculative_._

“So, let me get this straight—all this tells us is that Gallus suspected Mercer of skimming from the Guild’s profits? _That_ is the big reveal we waited for?”

Karliah shakes her head. “Not just the profits. No, he—he specified the treasury, right? That should be… impossible. Are you sure that’s what it says?”

“As sure as I’ll ever be. It’s in Falmer, Karliah.”

“And there’s nothing else?”

“Look,” Enthir says, “The only other thing of possible importance is this symbol I can’t translate. The journal is littered with it, but it’s clearly not Falmer. I can’t make sense of it. Go ahead and take a look if you think you’ll get anywhere.”

Right. Ak’Bhibi remembers the them.

Karliah frowns and rounds the table. “What are you talking about? Show me.”

Enthir flips the journal to a page somewhere in the middle of the book, stepping back so Karliah can see it. “Right here, bottom right of the second page.”

She gasps, immediately. “No… no, that _can’t_ be right. What’s the rest of this sentence say?”

“Okay, it’s not exactly as simple as just changing the symbols into Tamrielic ones. Gallus used a lot of his own symbols, ones you’re lucky I would know, and the Falmer language has _no punctuation at all—_”

“Enthir,” Karliah warns, giving a harsh sigh. “Please, can you do your best to translate the rest of this? Think of the symbol as a—a place.”

“I’ll try. If that’s a place, huh? I guess that can make sense. This bit at the end,” he says, tapping the page, “talks about Mercer doing Divines-know-what there, then. No, no, not _at_ it, _to_ it. There’s some bit about ‘watching what opens,’ but I couldn’t make sense of that, either.”

Karliah’s brow draws into a harsh line. “Of course. So… it is true, then. He must have taken it. I—Thank you for doing this, Enthir. I’ll be taking this with me.” She closes the journal in a curt _snap_ and looks to Ak’Bhibi. “We need to take this to the Guild immediately. I’ll explain when we get there. There are… certain people back at the Guild who have to hear this.”

“Are you just going to waltz on in, then?” Ak’Bhibi says. “_You?_”

Her, “_Yes,_” is through gritted teeth. “I spent my week coming up with a plan for us. I’ll meet you at the Ragged Flagon in two weeks. Be_ on time._”

She turns and gives Za’jhan-Dar a once-over. The expression he gives back is something Ak’Bhibi cannot place. “Thank you for returning the Cowl. You should come, too. I think this will be important for you to hear.” After that, she leaves.

Ak’Bhibi wonders, bitterly, if Karliah is rude to anyone else, or if it’s just him.

* * *

It is as Za’jhan-Dar and Ak’Bhibi are making the long trek back up to the College, weathering the glances and glares from various townsfolk—and really, what made the Nords despise magic so much?—that he remembers J’zargo.

“Are we still bringing J’zargo with us?” Za’jhan-Dar wonders. “This one did not know there was so much… baggage concerning your Guild. Times seem to be turbulent. Is it a good idea?”

Ak’Bhibi hums, considering. “Only turbulent for those of us in the know. In fact, the Thieves Guild is in dire need of new members. If he wants to, he could easily become an asset, if his… attitude can be kept in check. Or, as long as it stays funny.” He nods.

Za’jhan-Dar gives him a sideways look, but chooses not to comment. He is silent as they carefully cross the bridge to the college, bracing themselves against the wind. It seems to want to rip their feet from underneath them—Za’jhan-Dar has never met with a breeze so hostile.

“Very well,” Za’jhan-Dar says. He skirts the overhang toward the Hall of Attainment—here, it seems, snow is perpetual. “We will—oh, J’zargo. Za’jhan-Dar was looking for you.”

“As was I,” J’zargo says. He looks hassled, snow clinging to the hood of his robes. A thin layer of frost clings to his whiskers. Za’jhan-Dar shudders in sympathy. “The Flame Cloak scrolls, you see, they are finished. All I had to do was place enchantments upon them in the bitter cold. How I suffer for my work… we should test them again as soon as you have time.”

“That makes little sense,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “But Za’jhan-Dar supposes that is how magic is. If you are not opposed to testing them on the road, this one will be happy to aid you in your research.”

“Ah, your companion has taken care of his business,” J’zargo says, nodding at Ak’Bhibi. “You are offering to take J’zargo along on your travels?”

“We are offering more than just that,” Ak’bhibi says. He looks far more at home in the harsh elements of upper Skyrim. It’s unfair. “I have heard of your flexible character, from Za’jhan-Dar. Does that come with the aptitude for, say, taking what will not be missed? Or is that something you can’t do—”

“J’zargo can do anything,” J’zargo says defensively, crossing his arms. “Don’t presume to know my limits.”

“Then you may be able to keep up with us,” Ak’Bhibi says. Za’jhan-dar hides a smile.

“Keep up?” J’zargo huffs. “You will see. J’zargo will be better than both of you.”

“Come along and prove it. We are going to Riften. Do you know of the Thieves Guild?”

J’zargo narrows his eyes. “Oh. I see. You find J’zargo skilled enough to try to recruit him, and yet you still doubt his knowledge? His capability?”

“Hmm. Sure. You could see it that way.” Ak’Bhibi looks to Za’jhan-Dar. “_If_ you prove good enough, that is.”

“J’zargo will! You have not seen the depth of J’zargo’s skill! He will prove a better thief than the both of you _combined._ You will regret asking him to join. I will outshine everyone, and then it will not be the Thieves Guild, but the J’zargo Guild,” J’zargo spits.

Za’jhan-Dar carefully does not laugh. He does not crack a smile, he does not even change his expression. It is a mighty effort.

Ak’Bhibi cackles.

“Of course!” He says, when he has at least calmed enough to speak. “Of course. How _could_ I doubt you? So you will come with us and claim J’zargo’s Guild, then. Unless thieves are not your preferred company…?”

“Now you doubt my intent? There is no end to disrespect… of course I am coming with you,” J’zargo says. “When do we leave? Should I bring everything?”

“Everything you can carry,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “The Guild will not let go of you so easily, this one suspects.”

Ak’Bhibi nods. “We leave in the morning. Early. I want to be there without Karliah, first. Introductions will be easier like that. I will explain more tomorrow.” Ak’Bhibi waves a hand, then, and goes towards the door. “Now, there are… many things I must ready. Goodnight.”

“Meet us in the courtyard at dawn,” Za’jhan-Dar advises, hurrying to catch the door before it slams shut. “It will be a long trip.”

* * *

The ride is long and tedious. The only breaks from the monotony are an excursion into a barrow on the side of the road during a break for the horses to rest and drink water. Za’jhan-Dar takes the scrolls J’zargo offers him with a look of trepidation on his face, and Ak’Bhibi follows them both into it because he would rather not spend any extended amount of time in the company of their wagon driver.

“These scrolls,” he says, when they are alone enough that he can speak freely. “How do they work?”

“When charged with magicka, they cloak the wielder in flame, harming any enemies within range,” J’zargo explains. “The range depends on how much magicka is used… which is why it would be wise for us to step back.” He cups his hands around his mouth and calls out to Za’jhan-Dar, who has his foot halfway through the door into the depths of the barrow. “If you notice yourself burning, remember the river outside!”

Za’jhan-Dar responds with what sounds suspiciously like a string of curse words and disappears behind the door. It slams shut heavily, disturbing the layer of dust on the floor.

Ak’Bhibi coughs. He is glad he will go no further inside.

Waiting is tedious, but eventually Za’jhan-Dar emerges again, grinning.

“How was it?” J’zargo asks. “You do not look burnt.”

“They worked. The… zombies… in there, they are burnt to a crisp,” Za’jhan-Dar says, grinning. The look in his eyes is wild and bright—he must have encountered a good number of Draugr inside. “And look what this one found. Treasure.”

He holds out a hefty coin purse. Ak’Bhibi eyes it appreciatively. His hands itch to grab it, but he would not be that rude. To Za’jhan-Dar.

“Unfortunately, Za’jhan-Dar’s pockets are full,” he says, gesturing toward himself. When did he get that armor? It is nothing like Ak’Bhibi has ever seen. It is extremely green and extremely shiny. It somewhat resembles glass armor… maybe this is how the people of Cyrodiil smithed, hundreds of years ago.

It is hideous.

“Who has room for this?” Za’jhan-Dar asks. Ak’Bhibi looks down, taking in how filled every bag of his is. Usually, he keeps room for extra septims. It is possible that he could fit them somewhere, if he shoved things around. Maybe…

“J’zargo does,” says J’zargo, before he can even start organizing. “But do not make this a regular occurence. J’zargo only has so much room to carry things, after all.”

He carries a satchel and a bag. Is… is that really it? Ak’Bhibi was sure he had carried more—but maybe that was just himself and Za’jhan-Dar he is thinking of. Interesting.

“It won’t be,” Za’jhan-Dar says reassuringly. Somehow, Ak’Bhibi does not believe him. “Let’s return to the wagon. I am sure the driver misses us.”

The driver does not miss them—in fact, he looks sad to see them come out of the barrow alive. Are all Nords so prickly?

“I hope you weren’t thinking of leaving without us,” Ak’Bhibi jokes.

The driver refuses to make eye contact with him.

* * *

Admittedly, Za’jhan-Dar hadn’t heard much of Riften before he came to Skyrim. Now he sees it is comparable to Bravil—not quite the same, but he sees a similar look in the eyes of many of the citizens.

As he passes by one of the guards—and that’s unusual, the absurdly high concentration of guards in the city—they comment, “Heard about you and your honeyed words…”

To which Za’jhan-Dar gives them a perturbed look.

“How do these guards know so much about Za’jhan-Dar from only a glance?” he asks. “This one finds it… disturbing.”

“Za’jhan-Dar,” Ak’Bhibi says, looking tired. “It is best not to question the habits of guards. Sometimes I think they have a hive mind—one of them hears something and they all seem to know. _One _time, I am seen lightening someone’s load. Not even a handful of septims. Soon, every guard is telling me they’ll cut off my hand if it’s in their pocket. It was _once!_”

“Hmph,” Za’jhan-Dar says, supremely disgruntled. “Back in Za’jhan-Dar’s day and age, guards kept to themselves. ‘Hail, citizen,’ or, ‘Citizen,’ or, ‘By the Nine, if you have to travel, stay on the roads. It’s the Daedra, you see…’ None of this… _judgement._”

“These ones are trained to say ‘Citizen,’ too. Imperials, at least.” Ak’Bhibi rolls his eyes. “It is best to ignore them. So many think they know me, these days. Always trying to tell me this or that. Ugh. At least they do not come down into the Ratway.”

Za’jhan-Dar spares a glance at J’zargo, who looks dead on his feet. Za’jhan-Dar feels much the same way.

“The Ratway?” Za’jhan-Dar asks. “What is that? Za’jhan-Dar has unpleasant memories of rats…”

“It is where we are going. Don’t worry, I will be kind enough to walk where there are no Skeevers. This way.”

Ak’Bhibi leads them down a set of rickety stairs. Za’jhan-Dar has to hook a claw into the collar of J’zargo’s robe to keep him from falling into the murky water beneath them.

“J’zargo,” Za’jhan-Dar says, shaking his shoulder. “_J’zargo._”

“J’zargo is awake,” J’zargo says groggily. “He was just… waiting to see how long it would take you to notice he was pretending.”

“He is a method actor, then,” Ak’Bhibi mutters, beckoning them forth through the gate. “Come, it is not far yet.”

Ak’Bhibi takes them through a series of damp, dark tunnels, pausing briefly to make sure both of them know the passageways well enough to follow them from memory. At last, after many twists and turns which threaten to start Za’jhan-Dar’s headache all over again, they come to a door.

“See this mark, etched into the doorway?” Ak’Bhibi taps at the frame, and sure enough, there is a styled diamond there. “This means what is past is Guild territory, in one way or another. Make note of this, if nothing else.” He pushes the door open and leads them within.

Za’jhan-Dar’s senses are assaulted—mauled—by the smell of mold and stale water. Other than that, the wide, spacious room is rather… imposing. Shadows linger in every corner, darker than he would expect, and in those shadows he can make out the faint outline of people—clustered into small groups, talking lowly amongst themselves.

He turns his head to find J’zargo surveying the room, arms crossed over his chest.

The room is much more quiet than Za’jhan-Dar would have imagined, from what he has heard. Silent, actually.

Ak’Bhibi takes two steps in, takes in the atmosphere, and mutters, “Ah. Shit. You two might want to stay back. I _may_ have forgotten about something—”

“What are you doing here?” says a tall Imperial, stepping forwards from his position next to a rotting signpost. “Mercer said he killed you.”

Right. Za’jhan-Dar pulls J’zargo closer to the wall as he listens.

Ak’Bhibi has his claws out, low to his sides, as he walks forth. “He certainly _tried_ to. I’m lucky to be alive after he so _kindly_ stabbed me in the back. Literally, even. Did he explain that he tried to murder me like he murdered Gallus, or he leave that part out, too?”

Another Imperial, this time a woman, approaches. She has less mass, but she is far more imposing. “This is a _rather_ bold claim to make, don’t you think? You’re lucky we aren’t the Dark Brotherhood, or I’d be doing worse than telling you to leave. I’m considering doing worse anyway.”

“What if I told you that Mercer had been stealing from the Guild for years?”

“I’d tell you to stop trying to save your skin by lying.”

“Vex,” Ak’Bhibi says, sheathing his claws. His shoulders are pulled up and back like he’s bracing. “I’m a terrible liar. You know this.”

“And this is a terrible lie,” She says back. Is that a knife in her hand? “Don’t you think we check over the books? Everything that goes in and out of the treasury is written down and triple checked. Unless Delvin and Brynjolf are making the same mistakes, Mercer couldn’t be stealing.”

There is a frazzled look to Ak’Bhibi, the way his shoulders are bunched high and his tail swipes side to side, puffed up with every hair on edge. “After everything I have done for this—fine. Where is Mercer now?”

“He’s been out. Looking for Karliah.”

Ak’Bhibi nods, swallowing loudly. “Check the vault again. Once.”

“Even if we wanted to, we can’t.”

“Well why not!”

“Delvin is _out! _What, you think he leaves his key here while he’s gone?”

Ak’Bhibi throws his hands up. “So Brynjolf is out, too?”

“Do you _honestly_ not know how our treasury works?” Vex says. She sounds disgusted. “It needs two keys. If you can figure out a way to open it without them, by all means, go on ahead. I’ll _personally_ check over the books if you can.”

“_Fine,_” Ak’Bhibi spits, and he storms off to a bookcase that, after a moment, opens up into a hallway. Vex follows closely behind.

Za’jhan-Dar begins to follow Ak’Bhibi, but the Imperial man’s arm shoots out to stop him.

“Where do you think you’re going, outsider?” he asks.

“He—”

“This is our business. You’re nobody,” the man says lowly. “Just wait it out.”

Behind Za’jhan-Dar, J’zargo is making various noises of protest. Za’jhan-Dar shakes his head. “He said to wait. We will wait.”

* * *

Ak’Bhibi can feel every muscle draw taut as he walks into the cistern. People stare. Brynjolf, especially, stares, from where he stands behind the Guildmaster’s desk. He steps in front of him, arms crossed, expression tight. Goes to say something, starts his, “Lad—” but Ak’Bhibi shoulders him out of his path without grace and ignores the betrayed look it gets him.

He doesn’t care. He is going to open these damn vault doors if it kills him, and then he can go back to playing nice.

Vex yells, “Slow down!” and he ignores that too. Ak’Bhibi braces himself in front of the door, taking in air, feeling a space in his chest coil into something familiar. The force pulls tighter and tighter, find a tentative balance until it snaps, claws up and pushes out of his throat. He molds it into the words _Fus Ro Dah, _and he shouts.

The doors fly off the hinges with a loud, echoing clang.

It happens fast. He stands here, breath coming harsh and heavy from both his nose and his mouth, as Brynjolf stares at him and then at the vault. Ak’Bhibi watches his eyes widen, his mouth drop. He hears Vex gasp from behind him. Soon, the feelings of aggression and adrenaline wash away, replaced by a wave of shock.

The vault. It’s empty.

“No…” Vex says. “No, how—how is it all gone? _How?_” She rushes into the room, checking the chests. There’s maybe a few septims and some weapons left, but otherwise, the vault holds nothing but old dust.

Brynjolf doesn’t follow her. Instead, he turns back to Ak’Bhibi and says, “That was a shout, wasn’t it?”

Ak’Bhibi nods.

“So… does that mean—”

“Yes,” Ak’Bhibi replies, quickly. He does not want to deal with another’s disappointment. He hopes the other Nords in the Thieves Guild are somehow ignorant to the legends of the Dragonborn, or else he will have to deal with theirs, too.

“That’s all right, lad,” Brynjolf says. “I knew you were _different,_ just… I know you must have had your reasons for not telling us. I’ll make sure word of it doesn’t leave the Guild. Gods, but this is a mess…”

A tangible quiet falls, then, as Vex opens the last chest. “Gone!” She yells. “It’s all gone! Brynjolf, I thought there was no way to open this without two keys!”

“There isn’t. Well, wasn’t. I… I don’t know how he could have done it, lass. Unless he took one of our keys, or… Delvin—”

Vex shakes her head. “No. Delvin wouldn’t. And he’s been here. He’ll be back in a few hours. Mercer… he left _weeks_ ago. We need to find him. And our _money._”

Ak’Bhibi agrees. “Tomorrow. Karliah is coming. I’m almost sure she knows how Mercer did it.”

“Karliah? That—that _killer_ is coming here? We should…” He trails off, brow furrowing.

“I can explain," Ak'Bhibi assures him. "Or, Karliah can. She has been trying to collect evidence of this for years. She told me as much when she was saving me from bleeding out. You know, when Mercer stabbed me. In the back.”

Vex rolls her eyes. “We get it.”

“Okay. Then can you believe me now?”

She hesitates, but she nods.

Ak’Bhibi smiles as much as he can. “Then will you let me introduce my company? They will be much better assets to the Guild than Mercer ever was. One of them helped me and Karliah in finding evidence of… _this._” He gestures to the treasury.

“Whatever you think is best,” Brynjolf says, and Ak’Bhibi’s smile turns much more genuine.

* * *

“My head hurts,” J’zargo says irritably, slumping down on the table. “I am never going to recover from that wagon ride. And what was that I just heard?”

“Za’jhan-Dar has no idea,” Za’jhan-Dar says, leaning back and surveying the room. “You can’t spend this whole time sleeping. At least _look_ like you’re awake. When whoever Ak’Bhibi is talking with comes back and decides you are a fool, you will regret it.”

“J’zargo is _not_ a fool!” J’zargo exclaims, standing so suddenly his chair tips over. “I am extremely awake. In fact, I will never sleep again—do not test me.”

Za’jhan-Dar is prevented from replying when Ak’Bhibi returns with someone—Brynjolf, he assumes—in tow.

“Ah, you’re back,” Za’jhan-Dar says, nodding at Ak’Bhibi. “Don’t mind J’zargo. He is… having a moment.”

Ak’Bhibi snorts. “Aren’t we all. Brynjolf, these two are my company. That is J’zargo,” he says, pointing, “who is a mage, and an idiot. The other is Za’jhan-Dar. He is a mage.”

Over J’zargo’s indignant spluttering, Za’jhan-Dar says, “And a warrior. But, ah, this one prefers the arcane arts nowadays. Conjuration. Destruction.”

“Noted,” Brynjolf says. He looks about as tired as J’zargo. “I’m the, uh. The second in command. I take it Ak’Bhibi already explained how we operate?”

“More or less,” Za’jhan-Dar says.

J’zargo, who appears to have recovered his composure, nods. “If we are recruited, we receive a bed and a set of armor. Talk to… Vex, and Delvin Mallory for work. Is J’zargo wrong?”

“No,” Brynjolf says, sighing and slumping his shoulders. “It’s probably for the better that I don’t have to explain everything… if Ak’Bhibi trusts you, I can too. You’re in. Don’t get caught making any trouble and we’re good, all right? Vex and Delvin can answer any questions you have. I have to deal with—the mess that is currently unfolding.”

“I’ll help explain things to the rest of the Guild,” Ak’Bhibi says, and he disappears back to where he came from.

“Speak to Tonilia for your armor,” Brynjolf advises the two of them as he, too, steps back. “She’s right over there—yeah, that’s her. She’ll be your fence. I’ll… be back sometime. Find me if an emergency comes up.”

“J’zargo cannot help but worry for Ak’Bhibi,” J’zargo says. “It is unusual for me to care for anything but my newest experiment. I suppose we are… friends…”

“Don’t say that like it’s such a bad thing,” Za’jhan-Dar laughs. “Are you so unused to company?”

“I have had _many_ friends,” J’zargo hisses. Za’jhan-Dar starts walking toward the woman Brynjolf had pointed out, hoping J’zargo will follow—he does. “More than you can count. Although… I suppose none were as… as…”

“Fun?” Za’jhan-Dar offers.

“That is not the word J’zargo was looking for,” he says. “The company I used to keep was drab. Boring. But they were not as mean as you. You are… mean.”

Za’jhan-Dar clutches at his chest. “No… you take that back. You’re going to kill Za’jhan-Dar. Your words have cut him deeply.”

“Good,” J’zargo huffs.

Za’jhan-Dar rolls his eyes but says nothing—they’re quickly approaching Tonilia, and he doesn’t want her first impression of them to be blithering idiots. Which they are—he just doesn’t want it to be obvious.

“You’re the new recruits,” Tonilia states, leveling each of them with a cold, precise stare. “I like the way you look. Shifty. You’ll fit in here, I think. Now—these crates contain the Thieves Guild armor. Take whatever’s in your size. It’s a formality, really. You’re not required to wear it, but there are enchantments placed upon it you might find useful. It’s a little conspicuous, though, so… have a little discretion, hm?”

“Of course,” Za’jhan-Dar says, sifting through the crates. By now, he’s experienced at looting armor—from abandoned buildings, from dead bodies—he knows his size when he sees it. “This is finely crafted. Za’jhan-Dar never had anything like this back in Cyrodiil… ”

“Cyrodiil? That place is a mess. I would have come here, too, years ago. Now? Not so much.”

Za’jhan-Dar is about to make a comment about how of course it’s a mess, they’re missing an emperor and the Temple District is still in ruins because Chancellor Ocato is an absentminded fool, but he remembers his time at the last second.

“Am I supposed to assume you are the fence, too?” J’zargo asks.

“Why, yes, actually. I’ll take any stolen goods you find—but don’t bring me junk, please. A few years ago we had a member of the Guild who’d bring in nothing but old weapons and armor and expect to make a profit off those,” Tonilia says. “He’s out now, but I’ve been a little cautious of our new recruits ever since.”

“Understandable,” J’zargo says. “I think I will see good use from this armor.”

“It’s of fine make,” Tonilia says, shrugging. “Now, was there anything else?”

“Not that Za’jhan-Dar can think of,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “J’zargo, you should get settled in, get used to the place—this one is about to drown himself in drink.”

J’zargo scoffs. “As I expected, of course. I will rake in jobs and prestige, while you rot away at the bar.”

“Exactly,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Now, if you will excuse this one…”

* * *

When Karliah arrives in the Thieves Guild cistern, she is tense and wary, as she expects to be met with resentment and animosity; she looks confused when the members greet her without any sort of bitterness in their voice. Ak’Bhibi explains how he proved both her innocence and Mercer’s guilt with a smile.

“You told me to make a plan, only to…” Karliah huffs. She looks eased, nonetheless. Ak’Bhibi considers it progress.

From there Karliah reals to everyone her side of the story, clears up any doubts or questions she can, and formulates their plan.

Step one: break into Mercer’s manor and gather evidence on his whereabouts.

Steps two, three, four, and beyond: undecided.

The unsaid step five is to send J’zargo on a few jobs, because he has an amazing knack for getting underfoot and no one is equipped to deal with that at the moment. Ak’Bhibi wishes he had the time to be impressed, but instead he is busy. He thinks he is beginning to understand Brynjolf more with each consecutive job.

Which is what leads him to the situation he is in now: crouched in front of the locked gate in front of Riftweald Manor, Za’jhan-Dar beside him because Ak’Bhibi had insisted.

“There is a guard,” Za’jhan-Dar says, fingering the hilt of his dagger. Ak’Bhibi had given Za’jhan-Dar one of his own; the weapons Za’jhan-Dar had carried are tragically outdated in terms of quality and design, and Ak’Bhibi has always preferred his claws. “Should we kill him? This one is feeling murderous tonight.”

“That is against the rules,” Ak’Bhibi says, “And it is your very first job. Though, they may be bent for this guard. No one likes him. Actually, everyone hates him.” He hums, thinking.

“If he catches us, then,” Za’jhan-Dar offers.

Ak’Bhibi nods, and he flips his hood up as he inches forward, picks the lock, silently shoots down the ramp. The guard stares out into the night, oblivious as they slip inside.

Once inside, Za’jhan-Dar turns to Ak’Bhibi again. “Should we start from the top down, or the bottom up? Together or individually? Za’jhan-Dar brought potions.”

_Potions._ He is excited to give them use. “Top down. We should stick close, at least here. Mercer has many traps, I have been told, and I do not wish for one of us to be caught in one alone.”

Ak’Bhibi has never had a competent partner before Za’jhan-Dar. He itches to get to work.

Za’jhan-Dar surveys the inside of the manor, eyes flickering over every nook and cranny, before he withdraws two Potions of Invisibility from a small pouch at his hip. He gathers magicka in his hand, and Ak’Bhibi shudders when the buzz of a Muffle spell falls over him. Za’jhan-Dar gives him the Invisibility Potion and he tips it back, already anticipating the foul taste.

Za’jhan-Dar is still for a long moment. Casting another spell, Ak’Bhibi presumes.

“There is nobody here,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “I cannot sense as far as the basement, if there is one.”

“Interesting.” Ak’Bhibi would have expected… something. Then again, Mercer doesn’t seem like the type to trust others with his things. “It is safe to split up, then. But be careful of traps. I will check near the stairs for anything.”

“Shadow hide you,” Za’jhan-Dar says, creeping into one of the rooms to the right. The door shuts softly behind him.

Ak’Bhibi wishes, not for the first time, that Skyrim did not require boots. Despite his skill in sneaking, the floor creaks under his weight. He scowls at it and runs a hand over the wall as he tests each stair for hollowness, weakness. There is none. But there _is_ a large statue of Dibella, _right_ over there…

“Nothing good, save for a few gems,” Za’jhan-Dar says, approaching Ak’Bhibi. He says nothing about the golden statue in Ak’Bhibi’s arms, only glances at it briefly. “But they were flawed. The most anyone could do with them is forge them into rings… ”

“Any sapphire?” He asks, ear turned back to listen as he continues on.

“One,” Za’jhan-Dar says, following him down the stairs.

“Fancy a trade for an emerald?” It is not a good trade, but he _likes_ sapphire. Even flawed, he can make great use of it.

“Eh. Take it. Za’jhan-Dar has enough gems. He might not be able to carry any more.”

Ak’Bhibi looks down at his Statue of Dibella and nods in understanding. “I. Thank you, then.”

The good mood sours quickly as he begins to realize what Mercer’s house consists of. By the time they hit a dead end, they haven’t ran into anything more dangerous than a stale bottle of Black-Briar.

There is more. He knows it, can hear the way their steps echo like the ground is hollow beneath them, and yet he cannot for the life of him find which part of the house is false.

It’s almost ten minutes before he finds a cabinet tucked away in a dark corner. The back of it is hollow when he knocks, and he grins as he ignores the mechanism behind it and breaks it down with a kick.

The passage leads to a cellar. “Finally,” he mutters, rolling tense shoulders as he lets his eyes adjust to the low light.

They pass through the damp stone corridors carefully—_Is everything in Riften this damp, or do its thieves just attract water?_—disabling traps as they go. One of them almost takes Za’jhan-Dar’s tail off.

“A _blade_ trap,” Za’jhan-Dar spits for the thirtieth time. Ak’Bhibi has been keeping count. “Who ever thought that would be a good idea? The hairs on the end of Za’jhan-Dar’s tail, gone before their time. Curse Mercer Frey!”

“You are over-exaggerating,” Ak’Bhibi grumbles, his own shortened tail flicking back and forth. “It would not be so terrible a look for you.”

“Za’jhan-Dar loves his tail… Mercer Frey had better not have put any more of these traps here,” Za’jhan-Dar swears. “This one will _have_ his vengeance.”

Ak’Bhibi shakes his head, activating a dart trap they could have been caught in by tripping the wire early. “We’re at the end of it anyway. Look—” And he stops, because there’s one of the things on Delvin Mallory’s list, sitting right next to the plans they were sent here for.

“Is that—is that supposed to be the Gray Fox?” Za’jhan-Dar asks incredulously.

The cowl the bust wears doesn’t look as hideous as the one he saw it in Za’jhan-Dar’s hands, but there’s a clear resemblance. He nods.

“They got his nose wrong,” Za’jhan-Dar observes. “And he was not this handsome. This is funny. Let’s steal it.”

“I was going to.” Ak’Bhibi ignores the fact that his arms are already full of Dibella’s image. There are jewels on the table, too, none of them the ones he wants. He shoves them into his only empty pocket.

“Za’jhan-Dar can take it,” Za’jhan-Dar says, picking up the bust. “Hmm. Lighter than he thought it would be. Let’s find these notes quickly so we can get out of here. Oh, wait. There they are.”

Ak’Bhibi snorts, picks them up, and leads farther.

He did not expect the resemblance to the Ratway to _mean_ something. As he drops into the familiar walls, though, he finds himself met with the tell-tale rags of a forgotten squatter. They swing a knife at him. The Statue of Dibella works rather well as a bludgeon, he finds.

He is not sure if they are knocked out or dead, but he nudges them over the ledge anyway. When he looks to the side, he sees the bust of the Gray Fox put to similar use against the vagrants that have discovered their presence.

“This one is not sure the Gray Fox would approve of his likeness being used for such acts,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “But it does make a good blunt weapon.”

“Eh. You said it was too handsome, did you not? You are just making the likeness stronger.”

“Ah… he supposes you are right,” Za’jhan-Dar says, promptly bashing one of his attackers in the face. They drop like a stone. “The grime and whatnot, it brings this bust down to the real Grey Fox’s level.”

Ak’Bhibi laughs. “That was the last of them, I think—I know where to go from here. We are not too far from familiar ground, see?” It is no more than two corners away that he reaches the back entrance of the cistern.

Za’jhan-Dar would not normally be allowed inside until he was fully initiated, but. Ak’Bhibi supposes this case is rather special.

He cracks the door open slowly. It’s midnight; most members of the Thieves Guild are asleep in their beds. A few are absent—Sapphire, Rune, Cynric, and, of course, J’zargo. The lighting is horrible in the cistern, and as his Night Eye kicks in, he’s never been more thankful to be Khajiit.

“Put the bust of the Grey Fox on that shelf over there,” Ak’Bhibi suggests. “But, ah… wash it off first, maybe. Don’t worry—the pool in here is clean, for the most part. Come find me when you’re done. I will go to the others, after I stow my Dibella somewhere.”

“This one will,” Za’jhan-Dar agrees, and carries the bust toward the clear waters of the cistern floor.

As for Ak’Bhibi—he finds some space underneath his bed and sets the statue down as gently as he can, careful not to jostle the other various stolen goods next to it.

Za’jhan-Dar meets with him just as he’s stepping away. Ak’Bhibi hears faint voices coming from the general direction vault, so that is where the two of them go.

“Ah, good. You’ve returned,” Karliah says when she catches sight of them. Brynjolf is standing off to her side, arms crossed, serious expression on his face. “You have the plans?”

“Of course I do,” Ak’Bhibi says, withdrawing them from his bag and handing them over to Karliah. “Were you aware that Mercer Frey’s house exits into the Ratway?”

Her eyes narrow. “No. I was not. Did you look at these yet?”

“Barely. His handwriting is terrible. How can anyone read this?”

Brynjolf is peering over her shoulder. He snorts. “That is a talent that takes years of practice. You get used to it when it’s your job.”

Za’jhan-Dar steps up beside Brynjolf and takes a look at the notes. “Not even this one’s handwriting is that bad.”

“And what is this?” Ak’Bhibi taps, maybe a bit roughly, at the strange character Mercer must have drawn. “I hate its eyes. Why did he draw them so… beady?”

“Wait.” Karliah moves closer. “Does that say… for the love of—is Mercer really going after the Eyes?”

“The Eyes? As in, the Eyes of the Falmer?” Brynjolf cuts in. “I thought those were nothing but a legend. You’re implying they exist? And Mercer’s going after them?”

“This must be what Gallus was researching,” Karliah says, brows knit together. “He loved dispelling myths, figuring fact from fiction. By the gods, his journal—he wrote it in the Falmer language. He must have been trying to give us clues. If we could have translated the entire journal… my bet is that he was planning to go after them.”

Brynjolf scoffs. “Well that’s a bit of a fuck you, isn’t it. Gods.”

“Falmer?” Ak’Bhibi hisses, realizing exactly what they will ask him to do. “Does this mean _more_ caves? Even now, Mercer sends me to the worst places! This is barely even thieving!”

“Be that as it may,” Karliah starts, “we can’t let Mercer get away with this. Think about it. We’re killing three birds with one stone—we intercept Mercer and make him pay for his crimes, we finish what Gallus started, and we recover some of our standing. We’d be stealing from the long-gone Dwemer, and the traps they set around their ruins are well known for their… efficiency. Only the best have a chance of surviving. If we can pull this off before he does, if the Eyes of the Falmer go into the market, if people know it was _us _who retrieved them, it’ll make us legendary. I think this is just what the Guild needs.”

“I’m keeping one,” Ak’Bhibi spits. “I have had my fair share of the Dwemer and their deadly traps. Even if it stays here, I am keeping a prize, so help me—”

“All right, all right,” Karliah says. “Even one is valuable enough to earn back some of our prestige. But first… there’s something we need to do. We have to regain Lady Nocturnal’s favor.”

“Are you returning the cowl?” Za’jhan-Dar asks.

“I am,” Karliah says. “We’ll have to, to appease her, and for her to allow us to become Nightingales. Mercer was one—this is the only way we can stand on equal footing with him.”

“But there are only three Nightingales,” Ak’Bhibi says, “and yet four of us stand in this room.”

“About that, lad,” Brynjolf says. “Karliah and I, we talked it over. I’m better as I am now, running scams in the marketplace and recruiting prospectives. See, what I do keeps the light off the rest of the Guild, so you all can operate in the shadows. Can’t very well become one of them, then, right?” He sighs. “And you know I’m not really… spiritual, like that.”

“I am not either,” Ak’Bhibi mutters, mostly to himself. It does not matter. It never does with the Daedra. Why can't more of them be likeable?

Karlian waves a hand. “_No,_ both of you. Becoming a Nightingale is much more about business than anything else, it’s not like joining a cult of fanatics, or, or—oh, you’ll never understand, who am I kidding.” She turns, then, while Ak’Bhibi is busy gaping at her. _Rude._ “Za’jhan-Dar. We don’t know a lot about you, but you’ve… recovered one of Lady Nocturnal’s prized artifacts. You gave it to me without hesitation. For that alone you are already more deserving of our ranks than many Nightingales of past.”

Za’jhan-Dar hums consideringly. “Yes… that makes sense. Za’jhan-Dar is not opposed to becoming a Nightingale. In fact, he is looking forward to speaking with Nocturnal… it has been too long.”

Ak’Bhibi thinks his own luck has served him well enough, doesn’t think he needs to gamble for more, but he supposes not agreeing would be delaying another inevitable meeting. He can’t run from everything forever.

When Karliah looks at him, he nods.

“Then it is decided,” she says, softly. “Meet me outside Riften, near the Shadow stone, in… two days, let’s say. I have Enthir’s notes with me. I’m going to find out everything I can about the Eyes before we do this. I expect Gallus will have taken detailed notes.”

Ak’Bhibi nods. A hush falls over the vault, broken when Brynjolf and Karliah take their leave.

“You’re doing well, lad,” he says over his shoulder, to Ak’Bhibi. “Everyone’s proud of you. Come back in one piece, alright?”

Ak’Bhibi swallows, feeling warm and grateful, and says, “Alright,” back.

* * *

“What is there even to do in Riften?” Za’jhan-Dar complains. The air is cold and wet, the wood planks underneath his feet are half-rotted by the feel of it, and everywhere is the rank smell of fish. At least they’re not on the actual docks. “Besides crime.”

“Besides crime? Well. There is an alchemy shop, Elgrim’s Elixirs. There is a blacksmith, if you’re interested in forging or buying armor—there is also Grelka’s stand, but she is, ah. Not hospitable to customers. There is the Bee and Barb, where Talen-Jei serves unusual drinks...” Ak’Bhibi explains.

“An inn? Or a meadery?” Za’jhan-Dar asks.

“No, the meadery in town is Black-Briar Meadery. The Bee and Barb is mostly just an inn. It’s right outside the plaza, see it there?” Ak’Bhibi points.

“Ah. Let us go inside, then. This one is cold.”

It is easy to shake the chill once the doors close behind them. The Bee and Barb is full of lively chatter, the strumming of an off-tune lute, a bard’s hearty voice. In a sheltered dip a little ways from the entrance, two Argonians work behind a bar.

Ak'Bhibi follows behind, explaining, "The green-scale is Talen-Jei. He is engaged to the white-scale, Keevara, who owns—" Suddenly, his stride stutters. He swallows loudly.

Za'jhan-Dar follows his gaze, but nothing seems out of the ordinary, as far as he knows. Which is admittedly not that far in this here and now, but there is nothing strange about serving drinks at an inn, is there?

"My friend," Ak'Bhibi says, then clears his throat. "You are… back? In Riften? I was not expecting to see you again so soon. Or at all." There are a few at the bar, but it is a handsome Brenton that turns, quirks a brow. Clear recognition soon sweeps over his features.

"Well, well, well, if this isn't a nice surprise. My new favorite drinking buddy! I was just thinking about you, you know? Wondering what you were up to." Is he… slurring his words? It’s barely afternoon. “Let’s get some mead.”

Ak’Bhibi blinks, rapidly, before looking to the side. “You _know_ I like mead.”

“Ak’Bhibi, is he… drunk? At one in the afternoon?” Za’jhan-Dar asks. “This is a _friend_ of yours?”

“Ah. Well. He is… would you like to introduce yourself?” Ak’Bhibi looks as though he had been about to gesture, but had been frozen halfway through. It’s hilarious. “You two may have, er. Met before?”

“You know my memory isn’t my strong suit,” the man says, but he is looking far more closely at Za’jhan-Dar. Leering, almost. He stands—Gods, he must be the tallest Brenton he’s ever seen—and holds out a hand. “Lemme reintroduce myself, then. The name’s Sam Guevenne. Sam is fine, but you can call me whatever you want.” He winks.

Za’jhan-Dar scowls.

(“Listen. There’s something important you need to know before you go out and collect a Daedric artifact for me.”

“This one can handle himself, Martin. There is no need to worry. He has survived numerous… encounters… with the Daedra.”

“Humor me. If you meet a man who tells you his name is Sam Guevenne—especially if you meet him at a bar or other drinking establishment—please, stay away from him.”

“What is this man’s significance, that you think he is so dangerous?”

“He’s how I got involved with the cult of Sanguine. He _is_ Sanguine, in disguise, told me he’s used the same name for centuries now. And he can be very, very persuasive when he wants you to do a favor for him. He’s… good at bribes. Just, watch out, all right? You might find yourself neck-deep in his cult before you even know what you’re doing, if you aren’t careful.”

“Very well. Za’jhan-Dar will be cautious.”

He’d gone and consorted with the Sanguine cultists outside Skingrad anyway.)

“_You,_” Za’jhan-Dar accuses.

“Me?” Sanguine replies, hand to his chest. It is, obviously, a mocking motion. “So we _have _met.”

“That spell you taught Za’jhan-Dar had him thrown in the Leyawiin dungeons for five years _without any clothes on!_” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Or, he would have been in for that long, except he escaped. Nobles take great offense to complete humiliation and minor injury! Who would have known? And Za’jhan-Dar forgot to return for the Rose, after all that.”

Sanguine nods, slowly. “Oh, now that you mention it… Yeah, I _do_ remember that! Huh. You know, you look remarkably good for someone so old. Shouldn’t you be dead?”

Za’jhan-Dar meets Sanguine’s words with a stony silence.

“Fine, fine, I wasn’t interested in your secrets anyway,” Sanguine says flippantly. “Let’s forget about the past and have a drink together, shall we? For old time’s sake. Unless, of course, there’s something else you’re interested in…”

“No. Not in a million years,” Za’jhan-Dar says flatly, and then relents. If Ak’Bhibi thinks Sanguine is worthy of his friendship, there must be something about him that isn’t entirely awful. “But, Za’jhan-Dar supposes he could do with a drink.”

“Hey,” Ak’Bhibi cuts in. “Don’t let him rope you into a drinking contest. You will wake up hundreds of miles from here with a throbbing headache, having done things you would have never dreamed of doing.”

“Oh, c'mon. It was fun, wasn’t it?” Sanguine says, clapping a hand down onto his shoulder, and Ak’Bhibi stares at the ground as he sighs. He nods.

“Maybe after this whole business with the… secret things… is finished, then,” Za’jhan-Dar suggests. “For now he would like only a little. Za’jhan-Dar admits he is not familiar with Skyrim breweries. In his day, the Surilie Brothers and Tamika were the big names. And we mostly drank wine.”

“Skyrim has much to offer,” Ak’Bhibi says, now rubbing at his chin. “Surilie Brothers wine is familiar, yes, but… I wonder if there is any San’s Spiced Wine here. It is always a treat to stumble across that. Very good, if not hard to come by.” He turns towards the bar, mouth open, but is pulled back by Sanguine’s grip.

“Oh, you mean this?” Sanguine smirks, taking a swig from a large, deep green bottle. It was not there a moment ago, Za’jhan-Dar is sure of it.

Ak’Bhibi’s eyes widen. His tongue swipes over his teeth. “See, Za’jhan-Dar, this is why you must be wary. Next thing you know your mind will be gone before the wine.” Despite his warning, his fingers slip around the neck of the bottle, sliding it out of Sanguine’s grasp to take a long drink. He purrs during it and coughs at the end of it. “Ahh, yes, even better than I remember. Spicy, sweet. _Strong._ Will you try, my friend?” Ak’Bhibi holds out his hand, wine sloshing. He looks more relaxed already.

Za’jhan-Dar studies it, considering, and takes the bottle. His eyes flicker from it to Ak’Bhibi, then to Sanguine, then back.

It looks fine. It smells fine. Is there really any harm in just one drink?

The wine is smooth when it hits his tongue. Too long has it been since he has tasted a new wine, and this one does not taste all that strong, what was Ak'Bhibi talking about?

It is when he hands the bottle back that it hits him. Warmth, potent warmth, lingers in his throat and curls in his gut. There it settles, low and heavy.

"There ya go," Sanguine smiles. "Doesn't it taste good? Maybe I'll keep the rest of it to myself."

Ak'Bhibi finds the bottle and pulls it back. "Don't be mean," he says, slinking one hand around Sanguine's side to lead him towards a table. With the other, he brings the wine back to his muzzle.

It does not stay just one drink.

Za'jhan-Dar does not know how long they stay there, handing the spiced wine back and forth, but the bottle is empty before the sun even begins to set—and really, it should have run out long before it did, but Za’jhan-Dar figures Sanguine is just… up to… Sanguine things.

"So," Sanguine drawls, arm draped over Ak'Bhibi's neck, foot playing with the end of Za'jhan-Dar's tail. He cannot bring himself to move it away. "What are these _secret things_ you’re planning on doing? Anything fun?"

"No, not fun. Only business," Ak'Bhibi says. He drank much more than Za'jhan-Dar—most of the bottle was split between him and Sanguine. He would think it impressive if he could think straight. "Business with your kind."

"Oh?" Sanguine leans closer. "Business? You better not be cheating on me."

Ak’Bhibi squirms in his seat. "Not—well—just, uh… it’s just Nocturnal."

Nocturnal… Za'jhan-Dar remembers her voice. He wonders if it will sound the same when he next hears it.

"Oh, Lady Luck.” Sanguine nods. “Yeah, I get that. What I wouldn't give to get lucky with her—"

Za-jahn-Dar gives a bubbly laugh at the idea. Ak'Bhibi chuckles, too, reaching for his water. He misses the first time. Za’jhan-Dar laughs at that, too.

"Hey," Ak’Bhibi says, after a long sip.

Sanguine quirks a brow. "Hm?"

"We should—we should do something."

"And by something, you mean…?"

"Something… fun. I have—but—but we can't… not here. Come on, follow me." Ak'Bhibi gets up, pulling Sanguine up with him, and the Prince gives a lively laugh as they stumble. Za'jhan-Dar finds himself having to rush to follow.

Finally, when they are in the husk of Mercer's home—Sanguine can shift into the man himself, they find, when he sends the guard off for good—Ak'Bhibi takes out a distinct purple bottle of skooma. He drinks it immediately.

Za’jhan-Dar grins. He says nothing, but inside he wonders if they are still diluting skooma. He wouldn’t know, of course. Za’jhan-Dar is a peaceful, law-abiding citizen whose skooma is _strictly_ for scientific purposes…

Ah. He can test if they are diluted, can't he? He has skooma from ages ago, sitting in his pouch, waiting to be tasted.

_Za’jhan-Dar,_ he can imagine the skooma saying, _have you forgotten about us? Your faithful skooma…?_

Maybe he had a little too much wine.

“Try this,” he says instead of thinking about the inevitable consequences of getting this drunk. Sticks his arm out with the skooma in his palm. “It is old. Not like old people. Much older. Za’jhan-Dar wants to see if yours is diluted. What does hundreds of years do to the skooma process? Nothing good, this one thinks.”

“Oh?” Ak’Bhibi says, looking at it with blown pupils. “That reminds—reminds me, I have… yeah, you should try this, too. It’s good. Chase it with a Cure Diseases, though.”

He takes the bottle from Za’jhan-dar’s grasp, and leaves one in its place. But this one is red, and it smells strange and strong and a bit like water in the Ratway. Like skooma, nonetheless.

Ak’Bhibi holds his up and says a quiet, “Cheers?”

“Cheers,” Sanguine says. “Oh, wait. I don’t have anything.”

Za’jhan-Dar chucks a bottle of skooma at his head. “Ingrate.”

“Wait, wait, I might—” Ak’Bhibi says, digging through his pockets. “Wait, did I take that already…? No, okay, here it—here.” He hands another red bottle to Sanguine, then snorts. “It’s Redwater—and you’re Sanguine! It’s… it’s funny.”

Za’jhan-Dar laughs. He understands the joke, and in fact, he laughs until he forgets what Ak’Bhibi said in the first place, and somehow he ends up on his ass on the floor instead of in his chair.

“This one is fine,” he says, dusting himself off but making no move to get back up. He likes it down here, can stretch his legs and kick at Sanguine’s feet just for the sake of being an asshole. “Never liked chairs anyway. Better try this.”

The skooma is—it’s hard to describe. It tastes exactly the way Za’jhan-Dar had expected, a little like how the Ragged Flagon smells. The taste of the moon sugar is nearly overpowering, but that is perfectly fine. Za’jhan-Dar has always had a sweet tooth.

“Does anyone have a Cure Disease potion?” Za’jhan-Dar asks, already feeling lightheaded. “This one forgot to mention he does not carry them often.”

Ak’Bhibi looks again, and he frowns. “No. They are not usually… practical, to keep. I might have the ingredients…?”

“Eh, good enough,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Give them to me. Za’jhan-Dar is sure they will make a potion in his stomach. If they do not, he can return to the Guild and set up his alchemy lab. Why did he need to drink this again? Did Ak’Bhibi poison Za’jhan-Dar?”

Ak’Bhibi just slides over his entire apothecary satchel this time. “I gave you good skooma that does bad things,” he says, tipping his head back with the bottle he took from Za’jhan-Dar pressed to his muzzle. Some of it drips down his chin, and he spends a long minute messily trying to clean it with his tongue. He doesn’t quite manage it.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sanguine says, thumb brushing at Ak’Bhibi’s chin. He makes a loud sort of squeak in response, hands batting at Sanguine’s. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“That is reassuring,” Za’jhan-Dar says, letting himself fall back onto the dusty floor. It is a nice floor. Mercer Frey had good taste in floors. Maybe Za’jhan-Dar will move in when all the drama with the Guild is over and done with. The idea makes him giggle. “Za’jhan-Dar will have to... what’s the word… commission—commission a more accurate bust of the Grey Fox.”

“Oh, THIS stuff,” Sanguine says suddenly. “Yeah, I remember the people who made this. You are definitely gonna want to drink a Cure Disease potion after you sober up… unless you plan on becoming an acolyte of Namira? Peryite, maybe? Or you just want to be a vampire.”

“This one does not want to be a vampire,” Za’jhan-Dar says, shuddering and curling up on his side. “Vampires are ugly. Za’jhan-Dar hates vampires. He met one once, when he was in the Imperial City. He… ugh. He never wants to repeat the experience.”

“Not all vampires are ugly,” Ak’Bhibi mumbles. “_I _was a pretty vampire. And a pretty werewolf. Hey, Sanguine, why—how come you don’t have one of those yet? You’re missing out.”

“You were a _what?”_ Sanguine says, hand pressing to his chest, face full of shock. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“I… I mean, I wasn’t when we met.”

“Well, at least you aren’t either anymore. I’d be… _terribly_ hurt if you went behind my back and consorted with other princes. Especially in ways I wouldn't approve. _Especially_ Molag Bal.”

“Molag Bal sucks,” Ak’Bhibi agrees, crossing his arms. “He is very rude. And mean. Why are so many of your kind so unbearable?”

Za’jhan-Dar snorts. “By this time next week he will have promised his soul to at least five different Daedra. And maybe Martin Septim. This one would promise his soul to Martin Septim.”

“Martin Septim,” Sanguine says sourly. “What fun was he? I give him the Rose and he leaves my cult.”

“Martin Septim got the Rose too?” Ak’Bhibi blurts, sliding down from his chair to the ground. “Does that—Wait, you said he didn’t shout, never mind. Huh. Did he get other artifacts? I have a few.”

Sanguine pouts at that, throwing back his second bottle of skooma and making a weird face.

“No. Not that this one knows,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Martin shouted a lot actually. Usually when this one broke something in the Temple during training. It… is not a good idea to summon a Flame Atronach in the middle of… it was the good kind of shouting, though, where—you know they’ve only got… got the best in mind and—”

Are those flower patterns on the walls? Za’jhan-Dar hadn’t known Mercer Frey was such a flower-liking person. Za’jhan-Dar likes flowers, too, uses them in Alchemy all the—

“You never gave me the ingredients for a Cure Disease potion!” Za’jhan-Dar accuses, turning to fully face Ak’Bhibi, who has inexplicably come down to eye level with him.

“I gave you my satchel!” Ak’Bhibi says, shoving at the bag that is on the floor, nowhere near Za’jhan-Dar.

“What!?” Za’jhan-Dar exclaims, leaping back from the satchel. It had snuck up on him, like a snake. Za’jhan-Dar hisses at it, just to show it who’s in charge around here. “You cannot best me, foul satchel!”

Ak’Bhibi immediately starts laughing, pawing at his chair and at Za’jhan-Dar and Sanguine. He does not find purchase, and he ends up on his side, weezing, “You—you—” and getting nothing else out.

Za’jhan-Dar quickly shoves some hawk feathers in his mouth and also pours out a generous helping of vampire dust—

Regret. Regret. Regret.

His mouth is dry and the hawk feathers are sticking in his throat and mouth. He smacks Ak’Bhibi’s shoulder until he gets the message and passes along a bottle of liquid that is probably not water to Za’jhan-Dar.

Quickly, Za’jhan-Dar dumps it down his throat and tries not to choke as he swallows the disgusting concoction.

“This one thinks,” he says, eyes watering, body still wracked with timy coughs, “that was a Potion of Waterbreathing. Anyone want to go swimming?”

“That sounds fun.” It is Sanguine’s voice, but it sounds smoother, somehow. Much nicer than he remembers. “Doesn’t it?”

Ak’Bhibi’s hands are back in his bags, more steady than they were only minutes ago. He says, “I heard Maven dropped a special quill in Lake Honrich. We should find it before she does.”

Sanguine grins. “Oh, yeah, that sounds perfect right now. We _should_ go do that.”

“Should we?” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Za’jhan-Dar, he has heard talk around town… Maven is a fairly powerful person here, is she not?”

“Only because of the Guild!” Ak’Bhibi huffs, dragging his stray pack back to his side. “And she is horrible. Annoying. Rude. She reminds me of Molag Bal. I wish the Guild would find someone else to make powerful just to spite her.”

“Without the Guild, she is just a maker of mead, then?” Za’jhan-Dar asks.

“She is, ah… more than that. And, maybe she was helpful the past ten, fifteen years, but she does not have to stay that way, no, no. We can make other arrangements with nicer people. And I want her quill, anyway. She doesn’t have to know we found it.”

“You are right, of course,” Za’jhan-Dar says, pulling himself. It takes a little effort, but once he’s up he feels like he could run a mile. Damn skooma. “Let us only hope the water has not ruined it before we get there…”

Ak’Bhibi nods. “Yes. And let’s hope we can find it.”

They gather their things—remarkably fast, but that’s to be expected—and Sanguine’s laughter follows them out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit 10/9/19: changed meeting time in ragged flagon from 2 days to 2 weeks


	3. Chapter 3

When Ak’Bhibi wakes, it is fast, jarring, and most of all, freezing.

There is much to take in, in the first few seconds—the crisp smell of the outdoors, the harsh sound of the wind, the horrid itch of the hay beneath him, the pounding in his head—and after a horrible moment where he thinks he is back on the road to Helgen he realizes with a sudden, uncharacteristic clarity that he’s in one of the stable stalls outside Riften.

It is a good thing Shadr knows him and would not call the guards on Ak’Bhibi for trespassing.

The second thing he realizes is that he’s alone, which means Za’jhan-Dar is somewhere else.

_Damn you, Sanguine,_ he thinks, one hand reaching up to smooth his brow out. A rose—fresh, common, vividly red—tumbles off of him. He groans.

He should find some water. Maybe a healing potion. But first he needs to get up off the hay.

He does that, slowly and with great pain on account of the sunlight streaming through the stable window. He should be thankful, happy even for the rare clear skies around Riften, but now all he can think is that Kynareth should have waited another day to blow the clouds away.

Although, she might have done this on purpose, just to spite him for consorting with Sanguine. No, no, the Aedra are never so concerned with the life of one measly mortal… unless…? No, of course not—but then again, he is the Dragonborn…

What had he needed to do? Oh, right, Za’jhan-Dar.

He stumbles out of the stall and directly into someone else.

“Shadr, I can—”

“Ak’Bhibi!”

That is not Shadr.

“J’zargo has been looking for you. Two weeks he has been a member of the Thieves Guild, two weeks he has been out pickpocketing and thieving and intimidating—did you know Haelga practices the Dibellan arts? I did not—” J’zargo takes a breath, evidently frustrated. “Nevermind that. I think you would not want to know anyway. I have not seen hide nor whisker of either of you two since I got here. But I came to look for you after Brynjolf mentioned you were going to be out of town. J’zargo has been casting Detect Life for half an hour, poking his head into everywhere under the sun… and some places that were not… what are those papers in your hand?”

“Papers?” Ak’Bhibi looks down at his fist which is, indeed, clenched around a bundle of papers.

> _Deed of Ownership_
> 
> _Horse_
> 
> _Name — Frost_
> 
> _Sex — Stallion_
> 
> _Color — Mealy Chestnut_
> 
> _Lineage_
> 
> _Sire — Grane_
> 
> _Great Grandsire — Sleipnir_
> 
> _Dam — Unknown _
> 
> _Great Damsire — Loka_

This is Maven Black-Briar’s horse.

He remembers_—Louis Letrush, drunk, rambling about the horse he was cheated out of—_but that was weeks ago. Months, even. Surely he would have gotten the horse by now?

Ak’Bhibi looks back to the sky. If not, then these papers… they were in the Black-Brair Lodge, miles from here, no doubt heavily guarded. He is now, somehow, here.

Za’jhan-Dar is not here. Ak’Bhibi can only hope he is not in jail, but he trusts him to be still-breathing and safe enough.

More pressingly, _where is the horse._

“You know what? J’zargo no longer wishes to see those papers,” J’zargo says, probably catching the look on Ak’Bhibi’s face. “Keep your… illegal dealings… to yourself. J’zargo will not commit such a heinous crime yet. But—but don’t take that to mean I am afraid! I merely do not wish to go through all that trouble.”

“J’zargo,” Ak’bhibi says, “Have you seen Za’jhan-Dar? He was with me last night. What I hope was just last night.”

If they missed their meeting with Karliah… Ak’Bhibi winces at the thought of being days late to their meeting. He would prefer not to be _that_ kind of unreliable in front of her.

“What time is it? What day is it?” Ak’Bhibi asks, dreading the answer.

“The fifteenth of Frostfall, Tirdas,” J’zargo says. “Why?”

_Thank the Divines._

“Then I was not robbed of more than one day,” he says, slipping the papers into the appropriate bag. “You are a determined mage, yes? Have you ever dealt with the Daedric Princes before?”

J'zargo narrows his eyes. "J'zargo would rather not answer that. Why do you ask?"

"Nevermind. I ran into someone last night. I do not remember much of it. Where could Za'jhan-Dar have went…?" He squints at nothing and tries his best to recall. They were in the Bee and Barb, and then he took them to Riftweald Manor, and then—

"By the _Nine,_ what was I thinking…?"

He checks his pockets. The Quill of Gemination, something he should never have considered stealing, is nowhere to be found. Just like Za'jhan-Dar. Perhaps he is still there, near Goldenglow Estate, if Ak'Bhibi is lucky.

"Come with me. We are going to look for Za'jhan-Dar, and we are going to hope he did not follow me when I got these papers."

"J'zargo should not be taking orders from you," J'zargo says, arms crossed. "Maybe I will find Za'jhan-Dar on my own."

Ak'Bhibi stares at him. "You have no clue where he could be."

"J'zargo had no clue where you were, and you were found with ease. Za'jhan-Dar should not prove troublesome."

"You know Detect Life! It is not fair—"

"You can follow if you please. J'zargo will not stop you,” J’zargo sniffs haughtily.

Ak'Bhibi waits a few moments, watches as J'zargo turns to the right. He waits a while longer before taking off in the opposite direction.

"That is the wrong way to where I last saw Za’jhan-Dar," he calls once he has had his fill, and he laughs as J'zargo's grumbled curses grow closer behind him.

* * *

Za’jhan-Dar wakes up to pain.

“Wake up,” calls a voice. Is that J’zargo? He blinks, clearing his sight, and it is, along with Ak’Bhibi.

But why do they look so short…?

After the shock wears off, Za’jhan-Dar asks, “Did you just slap Za’jhan-Dar? Or is that the hangover?”

“Finally, you are awake. It is both, J’zargo thinks,” J’zargo says impatiently. Behind him, Ak’Bhibi is carrying a bucket. Za’jhan-Dar tilts his head slightly, breathes deeply—the accursed bucket is full of Riften’s lakewater, and Za’jhan-Dar thanks every Aedra and Daedra it did not come to that. “I have been trying to get through to you for much too long. Get off the horse, you idiot!”

The horse? He shakes his head, stretches his sore neck, takes a moment to wonder why his legs and rear and back are so sore—oh. _The horse._

Za’jhan-Dar’s feet are still in the stirrups, stuck there like they’ve been glued. He wriggles his toes experimentally and they buzz at him, refusing to wake up. Slowly, agonizingly, with the feeling of a thousand honey bees swarming in his bones, he inches his legs back and lets his feet fall out of the stirrups.

“Someone catch this one,” Za’jhan-Dar says, and only catches Ak’Bhibi’s aborted cry of alarm before he tips to the side and falls off the horse. He feels the press of hands, then a body, and then the air is knocked out of him as he falls to the ground.

“Molag’s balls—you forget how heavy you are!” Ak’Bhibi hisses, once he succeeds in shoving Za’jhan-Dar to the side. “What in Nirn are you carrying? Poor Frost must have been stuck here all night, starving and straining, unable to escape out from under you—”

“Fuck!” Za’jhan-Dar swears. “This one remembers now. He will kill Sibbi Black-Briar, he swears it. Do you want to know what Za’jhan-Dar is carrying? Cheese wheels. There were cheese wheels in the cellar! He could not help but pick them up—there, these two packs, dump them all out. In Za’jhan-Dar’s drunken stupor, he thought they were alchemy ingredients. Curse the Black-Briar family for owning this horrible amount of cheese! He did find a Cure Disease potion, though, so all is not lost…”

“After you finished off my hawk feathers and vampire dust…” Ak’Bhibi says, dropping his head back to the ground. “Curse the Black-Briars. Speaking of, do you have the quill we went out here to get? I do not remember if we got in the water at all, or what we did after.”

“We can’t just dump these out on the grass,” J’zargo interrupts. “Fools, the both of you. Take them back to the Guild, or let me. It could do with the extra portions.”

Ak’Bhibi says, “Take them then. As if I have the space.”

“I will,” J’zargo says, making a face at the two of them. “You two… figure out this whole horse business. I was never involved. In fact, I haven’t even seen you two today. Also, Brynjolf says good luck with your business out of town.”

Za’jhan-Dar notices Ak’Bhibi’s fond smile, but he keeps the observation to himself.

He waits until J’zargo is well out of earshot—which is much too long of a way—they had both learned firsthand just how keen J’zargo’s hearing is—and says, “We leave tomorrow, yes? We should spend tonight making our final preparations. Who knows what trials Nocturnal has in store for us.”

“Before that,” Ak’Bhibi mutters, getting back to his feet, “Do you remember retrieving the Quill of Gemination? I do not, but then again, I do not remember getting the lineage papers I woke up with either.”

“This one… vaguely recalls diving into the lake, which explains his stench, but he is not sure if he has the Quill,” Za’jhan-Dar says, turning to search the satchel where he keeps his valuables. It is a miracle he hadn’t been robbed overnight. “Here. This is it, yes? And an inkwell.”

“Wait. An inkwell?” Ak’Bhibi looks up from the buckles he was busy re-fastening. “Does it smell like normal ink?”

Za’jhan-Dar uncorks the little bottle and hesitantly sniffs it.

“No,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “It smells like—alchemy. He cannot figure out all the ingredients that are used—too many. For sure, there is Dwarven oil and dragon’s tongue. Spriggan sap, grass pods. Those are the things he smells. Fortify Illusion, fortify Alteration. Clever. But there is more. Is there an alchemist in Riften with connections to Maven Black-Briar?”

Ak’Bhibi hits smacks palm on his forehead. “Of course! There is one with more than just connections to the family. She is one of them. Ingun Black-Briar, the only tolerable one of the lot.”

“Yes, good,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “We will pay her a visit then, yes? Maybe she will help us for the chance to study strong potions from the Third Era.”

“Make that poisons, and she will jump at the opportunity.” Ak’Bhibi nods. “We will stop by her when we come back. Hopefully, she will not care that we have taken her family’s horse.”

“If she is like other alchemists Za’jhan-Dar knows, this one included, she will chase after her research above all else. And what can her mother’s horse do for her? She was not using it,” Za’jhan-Dar says.

“True… she does not seem to care for her family’s affairs in the slightest, from the little I have learned. Ah, but maybe we should talk about this more after we meet with Karliah?” Ak’Bhibi looks towards Riften, then to the horse. “And after we move Frost somewhere safe. I do not want to give him back.”

“He is a fine horse,” Za’jhan-Dar says, looking back at the stallion appraisingly. “Kept this one on his back all night. Don’t you have a house in Whiterun? You should pay for him to be transported there.”

“Yes, yes… that is a good idea. Whiterun will be good for him. No fear of dragon attacks that can’t be fended off, unlike here, where even the guards are better at scheming than doing their jobs. I will ask Shadr about it.”

“Good, good,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “This one left most of his poisons back at the Guild, under his bed. He will need to get those out before we approach Ingun Black-Briar.”

“And before that, we must prepare to become Nightingales. And by prepare, I mean that I plan to take enough potions to stop aching and go back to sleep. You can join me if you wish—but I’m sure I can busy myself until you return, if you wish to talk to her before I wake up.”

Za’jhan-Dar takes Frost’s reins in his hand and scoops up his satchel in the other. The muddy lakeshore squelches uncomfortably under his shoes, has soaked through them entirely, and despite the sunny day there’s a chill in the air. He will be glad to get back into Riften, even if he has to bear the rotting-fish stench again.

He hands the horse off to Ak’Bhibi when they reach the gates next to the stables.

“Here. Go talk to your Shadr. This one will attempt to figure out the ink,” Za’jhan-Dar says.

Ak’Bhibi smiles back. “Have fun,” he says, and he leads himself and Frost away.

Za’jhan-Dar shakes his head again in a vain attempt to dispel his headache, lamenting his lack of knowledge of Restoration spells—maybe he can find someone who will teach him. For now, he channels frost to his fingertips and passes the magic over his forehead, following up with one of the Restore Magicka potions he never goes anywhere without. It is a shoddy fix, and his Destruction magic is crippled from years of minimal use, but it will do.

He quickly finds his way into the Ratway cistern and gives Brynjolf a nod, to which the man returns it and busies himself once again with a stack of paperwork. Delvin Mallory, Vex, and Tonilia are crowded around his desk—most likely helping him clean up the mess Mercer Frey had left behind.

“Is that a two or a seven?” He hears Vex say as he picks through the potions under his bed.

There’s a potion of healing—he tips it back quickly, sighing when the last traces of his headache fade away.

“...I thought it was a five,” Brynjolf says. “It could honestly be a three.”

“You’re all daft,” Delvin Mallory says. “That’s a one.”

Za’jhan-Dar looks up in time to see Tonilia put her head in her hands.

He is glad not to be a part of that.

Silence and burden are good ones. Detect life, too, since the only way to learn it nowadays is to study a weaker version of the spell, based in Alteration and not Mysticism.

This should be good enough.

He salutes Brynjolf again when he leaves, climbing up the rickety ladder toward the burial chamber that houses the secret entrance toward the Thieves Guild. Involuntarily, he flattens his ears against the sound of scraping stone.

Ingun Black-Briar is an alchemist, so Za’jhan-Dar wanders the city until he finds Elgrim’s Elixirs. Maybe, he thinks, pushing the heavy door open, he can restock on potions ingredients for Ak’Bhibi after last night’s fiasco.

“Welcome to my shop,” greets an elderly woman behind the counter. “What can I do for you?”

“This one is looking for Ingun Black-Briar. He heard she is an alchemist,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Do you know where she is?”

From his left comes, “She’s right here.” She is standing over an alchemy table, books and ingredients laid out around her. A ravage health potion, by the looks of it. ”But I’m busy now, so this better be brief. Who are you and what business do you have with me?”

“This one has… an offer for you, to advance your studies. But it is better to talk about this away from listening ears, no?” Za’jhan-Dar says.

She looks up at him, brows raised, and then turns back to her table. “I’m in the middle of something. Give me a good reason to leave and I’ll listen.”

“He can give you completed poisons, excavated from ancient ruins in Cyrodiil,” Za’jhan-Dar says, drawing closer and lowering his voice. “It is an opportunity to study how the master alchemists worked in the Third Era. You may uncover a lost art.”

Slowly, Ingun sets her mortar and pestle down.

“The Third Era?” Her eyes shift back to him. “Hmm. Depending on their condition, those could prove very valuable. Alright, fine. Hafjorg, can you make sure no one messes with my work while I’m out? This shouldn’t take long.” Ingun wipes her hands off with a cloth and makes for the door before Za’jhan-Dar can get in another word.

“I won’t follow you anywhere,” Ingun says, as soon as the door closes behind them. “You’ll come with me to Black-Briar Manor, and we can discuss things there. And if you’ve interrupted my alchemy for a practical joke, you can become my next test subject.”

“This one understands. Lead the way,” Za’jhan-Dar says, half-smile forming on his face. He already likes her.

Ingun leads him up the half-rotted stairs and across the marketplace, into a large manor that seems almost out-of-place next to its worn-down neighbors. She steers him toward a large dining table and forcefully sits him down in one of the chairs.

“Now,” Ingun says, fixing him with an intense look. It’s the look of someone about to make a breakthrough. Za’jhan-Dar has seen it plenty enough. “You mentioned potions from the Third Era?”

“He did,” Za’jhan-Dar says, taking the potions he’d brought and laying them out on the table in front of him. He’d spent days on the road and in the Ratway cistern catching up on everything the modern-day Skyrim has to offer—he can only hope Ak’Bhibi’s knowledge of alchemy is thorough and up-to-date. “Detect life, a potion that replicates the spell effects without having to learn the intricate Mysticism spell. Burden, the ability to freeze your enemies in place. And silence, which stops anyone from casting any spell. These are all lost arts, yes? No one makes these poisons?”

Ingun nods, picking up the bottle of burden and tipping it from side to side. “You are correct. These look quality—where did you say you got these? They’re better preserved than any potions I’ve ever seen come out of the Dwemer Ruins, certainly.”

“You would not believe this one if he told you. Know that no one else will ever pick up samples like this again. Is that satisfactory?” Za’jhan-Dar asks.

There is a long moment where she says nothing, but eventually Ingun sets the bottle back down. “Well then. To offer me something like this, you must want something big in return. What is it? I should tell you that I am not my mother.”

“This one found a quill belonging to Maven Black-Briar. It uses a special ink, an alchemical one from the smell of it. Did you make it for her?” Za’jhan-Dar asks. “What is its effect?”

“You found the Quill of Gemination?” Ingun asks, eyes widening slightly. “I, well. Yes. Of course I made it for her. She wouldn’t be able to brew our family mead if I walked her through it, let alone something as complex as the ink this quill takes. If I remember correctly, the combination allows for the user to perfectly duplicate any writing. You only need to have the writing you want to copy and a blank surface—any surface.”

Jackpot.

“But my mother paid a high price to commission this,” Ingun continues, “and she would be very happy to get it back. Why should I let you keep it?”

“Your mother has been managing just fine without this Quill, has she not?” Za’jhan-Dar asks. “If your mother’s artifact is truly more important to you than your research, Za’jhan-Dar supposes he can sell them to someone else.”

Ingun purses her lips. “And if I were to take these potions from you by force? Suss out the ingredients for myself? Not that I would, oh no, but I can’t help but wonder at the possibility.”

“It would be harder than you think to take the potions,” Za’jhan-Dar says, moving to stand. “Even if you knew the ingredients, you would not know how to make it. These ingredients can be dangerous if combined incorrectly.”

“Well, then,” Ingun says levelly, clasping her hands behind her back. “I suppose you have a point. You have yourself a deal, Khajiit.”

“One moment while this one writes your recipes down, then. You can give him his recipe at the same time, no?” Za’jhan-Dar slides the vials of poison over to her and pulls out a piece of parchment and a quill—a normal one. From the corner of his eye, he can see Ingun doing the same thing. For a few minutes, the only sound is that of scratching quills—and then they are done. “Take this.”

“Here,” Ingun says.

Za’jhan-Dar scans the paper with his eyes. Any pigment, any binding. Varying amounts of Dwarven oil, dragon’s tongue, Spriggan sap and grass pods—and powdered claw of Hagraven, as well as crushed snowberries. Multiply or divide, depending on how much ink will be made. Brew ingredients in only the purest water. Mix thoroughly. Let sit for three days before use.

It looks legitimate, but Za’jhan-Dar gives Ingun Black-Briar a hard look. “If this one finds you have cheated him, you will not live to brew another potion.”

“The same goes for you,” Ingun replies. “If these recipes work, though, you’ll have found an ally in me. The Black-Briar family is powerful, and we have connections. Some of those connections are mine and mine alone. Keep that in mind… now get out of my house.”

* * *

“Ugh,” Ak’Bhibi groans, rolling over in his stiff Guild bed. He has taken at least ten potions by now, both healing and stamina, and yet he has only gotten mere seconds of consecutive sleep. “Do you think that once I bring the Thieves Guild back to greatness I will be granted a softer bed?”

“Will you shut up?” Niruin snaps. “I’m trying to write, here. I can’t concentrate with you moaning about a simple hangover for hours on end.”

Ak’Bhibi makes a louder noise just to spite him. He has only been complaining for this last half hour, and he has not said _that_ much. Niruin would never understand what it feels like to wake up after a night out with Sanguine, anyway.

“Are you trying to plan out your stupid brothel again?” Rune says, then. “I wish you’d quit it about that thing.”

“Brothel?” Ak’Bhibi says, sitting up. Okay, he takes it back, Sanguine would love that idea. Ak’Bhibi appreciates it… even less. “What is this about a brothel?”

Niruin’s hands fly up. “See, at least _someone_ here understands! It is a fantastic idea, and with the Guild going to shit I think that we should start considering our options—”

“We are not starting a brothel,” Rune snaps.

“Well, not with us, obviously.”

“No! Not at all!”

Ak’Bhibi can feel his headache coming back.

“You don’t know how successful—”

“Shut up.” Za’jhan-Dar, the Hero of Ak’Bhibi’s sanity, is back. “This one tires of your bickering. No brothels. Ak’Bhibi, you are still hungover?”

Loathe as he is to admit it, he says, “Yes. I drank… a lot. Among other things. My friend does not exactly make it easy to count drinks. Or say no to them.”

“Za’jhan-Dar knows well,” Za’jhan-Dar says. He crosses the room and comes to Ak’Bhibi’s bedside, rummaging around in one of his many bags until he withdraws a small red bottle. “This one meant to leave it for you when he was here earlier, but forgot. Here is a potion of healing this one made. It is very strong, and has calming effects.”

The effect hits him fast when he drinks it. “Thank you. At least someone is useful in this Guild—”

“Shut up!” Niruin yells, and Ak’Bhibi chuckles to himself.

“Think we could get you to brew those for us?” Rune asks.

“Think you could pay for them?” Za’jhan-Dar asks. Rune groans and turns back to his work. “Ingredients are not free, you know, especially for potions so strong…”

Ak’Bhibi gets to his feet and pats Za’jhan-Dar on the shoulder. “Don’t mind them. They’re all cheapskates. Tonilia is the only one here that I would trust to pay a fair price, and she’s not even a true member. Well, maybe I am being unfair. Maybe one could trust Delvin, or even Brynjolf.”

“Oh, I’m not trustworthy?” Vex says, walking into the cistern. She is so quiet, Ak’Bhibi never hears her coming unless he expects her, even with the screaming hinges the Ragged Flagon is plagued with.

He stares at her. “Vex. I trust that you keep your best interests at heart. You would not buy anything for more than half its worth if you could.”

“I wouldn’t buy anything at all if it was possible,” she says, giving a curt nod as she makes it to the ladder and leaves again.

When she is gone, he lets out a quiet breath. He hopes to one day understand her well enough to gain her respect.

“Maybe,” Ak’Bhibi says, “we should start getting ready.”

“Za’jhan-Dar has everything he needs in his bags already. Except a wash. But he is not so keen on dumping water all over himself just after his trip into the lake last night,” Za’jhan-Dar says.

Ak’Bhibi nearly forgot why Za’jhan-Dar was gone. “Was your time with Ingun fruitful?”

“Yes,” Za’jhan-Dar says, and grins. “She and Za’jhan-Dar have… come to an understanding. And he has the recipe for the ink, ready to be brewed by himself when we return or by anyone else while we are gone. This Quill of Gemination is a blessing. It can forge any document, perfectly.”

“That would make my changing of ledgers go much quicker… among other things.” He can only imagine the possibilities—being able to steal perfect plans without taking the original, duplicating deeds and rites for other uses. He wonders if it could duplicate everything made with inks. If it could recreate pictures as well…

_Praise be to Sanguine, then,_ Ak’Bhibi thinks, though he is not forgiving of his headache just yet.

“Yes, this one thought it would aid a great many things, if Brynjolf and the others figure out how to use it,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Is it time to leave yet? This one does not know how far the Shadow Stone, whatever that is, is from Riften.”

“You don’t know about the Standing Stones?” Ak’Bhibi’s brow furrows. “It is said that astral blessings of the constellations come from them.”

“Oh!” Za’jhan-Dar says, comprehension dawning on his face. “In this one’s time, the astral blessings are given when you are born. Whichever constellation is prominent during that month. This one, he was born during Sun’s Dusk, under the sign of the Atronach… it is why he relies so heavily on potions to restore his magicka.”

“Interesting… what sign would I be born under, then? I was born in Sun’s Dawn.”

“The Lover,” Za’jhan-Dar says, smile evident in his voice.

Ak’bhibi grins. “Ah… maybe I should consider Niruin’s brothel after all,” he says, taking off some of his bags to organize them.

“So the constellations hold less sway over magic now,” Za’jhan-Dar ponders. “Za’jhan-Dar wonders what else is different that he does not know about. Many things, most likely—but we will handle them when they come up, yes?”

“It will be fun to learn of the differences between eras. How limiting, that things were fixed at birth during your time.” Ak’Bhibi frowns down at his things, taking out bottle after bottle of stale stamina potions. He should really get around to selling these.

“Fun, yes. Sad, too, as Za’jhan-Dar is reminded of how much he has lost,” Za’jhan-Dar says quietly, and then straightens, a look of resolve coming across his face. “But that is not a topic to discuss now. This one cannot avoid washing himself forever.”

He nods at Ak’Bhibi and marches resignedly down one of the off-shoot tunnels of the cistern. The bathing area is never lit and the water buckets are usually missing, not to mention the sorry state of the washcloths, but Za’jhan-Dar doesn’t come back out for a solid fifteen minutes so Ak’Bhibi assumes he managed.

In the meantime, Ak’Bhibi empties out his unnecessary things onto his bed. There are a surprising amount of alchemy ingredients that he puts aside for Za’jhan-dar, and a fair number of rings, necklaces, and amulets he had forgotten about. He should find Tonilia while he is still here.

When he is done, he feels lighter than he has in months. Maybe there is a reason the floors always creak underneath him, despite his lithe frame.

“When do we leave?” Za’jhan-Dar asks.

Ak’Bhibi spares him a glance—he looks miserable, fur standing on end and clumping together where it’s dampest. He can’t help but laugh. “Oh, Za’jhan-Dar, I am so sorry. You look like the rats we drag out of the cistern waters.”

“This one apologizes,” Za’jhan-Dar says venomously. “He did not know you prefer him to smell like horse and lake water. Ugh, how Za’jhan-Dar hates the water.”

“You know, reflecting on it, I don’t think I even got in the lake,” Ak’Bhibi says. “Why did you go diving alone if you hate it so much? Ah, but you were on Redwater. I understand.”

“Your friend probably had more of a hand in it than the skooma did,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “At least it is over.”

Ak’Bhibi snickers. “Yes. And we got good things out of it. Much better than my last meeting with him, where all I got was the scorn of the priestesses of Dibella… No matter that, though. We can leave in a few hours. First, I am going to barter with our fence.” While gathering his things, he remembers, “Oh, and, in my drawer, I left some things for you.”

“A few hours, you say? This one will look in the drawer later, then,” Za’jhan-Dar says, rifling through the trunk at the end of his bed. “Ugh. Must have lost it. Nothing to do now but sleep.”

“Goodnight, then,” Ak’Bhibi says, and he takes his jewelry to Tonilia.

He regrets bothering her when he finds her. She’s emptying out the barrels that hold her merchandise, and when she looks up at him it is with a face full of fatigue.

“Ak’Bhibi?” She says, setting down an enchanted sword. “I thought I heard you were going out of town.”

“I will be. Soon. First I wished to lighten my load, but you look busy. I can come back later.”

Tonilia sighs. “No, you’re fine. I’ve got the time to spare.”

“And the coin?”

“I’m not exactly on your payroll, am I?” She closes up a crate and turns towards her books, writing something down. “I’m doing well enough for myself—I just have to figure out if Mercer’s stealing extended to me and my work.”

Ak’Bhibi shrugs, sitting on one of the empty barrels. “Alright, then. You know, once I am finished undoing the damage done by Mercer, you should consider joining more officially. The Thieves Guild will be better as a family than an ally when I’m through with it. Or, that is the hope.”

“You too?” Tonilia sets down her quill, looking at Ak’Bhibi with tired eyes. “Look. Putting my name with yours would only hinder my business. I do best without tying myself down—you should know that by now.”

Ak’Bhibi glances over to Vekel the Man. He gives her a knowing look.

Tonilia groans. “Not like that.”

He laughs. “Fine, fine. Let us do business, then. What will you give me for these?”

* * *

The road to the Shadow Stone is more worn than Za’jhan-Dar would have expected. Even when he is led off stone and onto dirt, the grass he walks through parts almost imperceptibly before him. They do not speak, but the trip is not long, and the crunch of leaves underfoot is soothing.

They get there just as the sun is rising, dyeing their surroundings in shades of yellow and orange, gently dappling the leaves of the trees around them. Karliah stands with her back to what Za’jhan-Dar assumes is the Shadow Stone, a smooth grey pillar that tapers off at the ends. In the middle of it is a hole, and through the hole he sees a darkness.

A dead mage lies at Karliah’s feet; the robes they’re wearing suggest they were a necromancer. They had tried to attack her, it seems, and paid the price for their hostility.

Karliah gives the two of them a smile when they get close enough.

“I see you’re both ready, then?” she asks, shifting her weight forward.

Ak’Bhibi nods, hands lifting and falling. He meets Za’jhan-Dar’s eye.

Za’jhan-Dar sighs at his apprehension. “Yes, we are ready. Although, Za’jhan-Dar wonders just how far we have to go from here.”

“We’re very close,” Karliah says. “Follow me. Mind the thorns.”

She leads them into another clearing, this one more secluded than the last. The mouth of a cave waits for them on the other side, and to the right of it rests a tall slab of black rock, boldly emblazoned with what Za’jhan-Dar has come to learn is the Nightingale symbol. The earth is cracked around it, as though some divine power had thrown it there and left it to erode.

Za’jhan-Dar and Ak’Bhibi follow her into the cave, past a pair of heavy metal doors that slam heavily behind them.

He feels a wave of irritation roll off him when he hears water, soon followed by Ak’Bhibi’s quiet laughter. The sluggish waterfall and stream are pretty in an objective sense, but between the lake and the cistern Za’jhan-Dar wishes he could go somewhere that was just dry land. No lakes, no streams, none of that.

“This is the base of the Nightingales,” Karliah says as she leads them over the bridge. “Though it hasn’t been touched in many years. You should feel lucky to step foot here without being initiated—you two are the first to do so in over a century.”

“Initiated?” Ak’Bhibi asks, but Karliah waves him off.

“I’ll explain another time. It would have taken days, maybe weeks, to complete. But enough of that—I don’t want to say here long without talking to Nocturnal first. Through here—this is the armory. Place your hand on one of the darkened pedestals and we will see how the armor accepts you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ak’Bhibi step up to one of the pedestals and lay his palm out flat over it. He isn’t immediately struck down by Nocturnal or any other deity, so Za’jhan-Dar assumes it is safe and does the same.

A heavy feeling settles over his hand as he pulls it back, unseen as it slinks up his arm, then further. Like thick silks it drapes over his shoulders and wraps his legs, his neck, his muzzle, and then it pulls tight around his chest before settling into something with more structure. Something—it feels like a hand—covers his eyes, and when he can see again he is ensconced within the shadowy embrace of the Nightingale armor.

“Okay,” he hears Ak’Bhibi say, “This does feel rather good.”

“It’s conspicuous,” Za’jhan-Dar says, glancing over at Ak’Bhibi. “But… this one likes it.”

“As you should,” Karliah says, and when he looks back to her she now bears her own set of Nightingale armor. She gestures for them to keep following her. “The armor we wear is sewn from the shadows themselves… a gift from Nocturnal. The fact that she gave it to you fills me with confidence she’ll allow you to become Nightingales. Now, come. I’ll show you to the main chamber.”

Ak’Bhibi strokes his fingertips over the symbol etched into the cuirass as he rushes to step in line, mouth slack with silent awe.

Za’jhan-Dar brings up the rear, and is led into a wide, open cavern. All around the cave, streams of water cascade down the rocks that make up the walls. It is inherently abhorrent, but strangely alluring all the same.

Karliah motions towards three round platforms, connected to a tall stone pillar in the middle of the cavern. Za’jhan-Dar and Ak’Bhibi follow her lead, each of them taking up a place on top of one of them.

“Be respectful,” Karliah stresses, though Za’jhan-Dar does not think it’s directed at him. She then takes a knee and calls out, “I call upon you Lady Nocturnal, Queen of Murk and Empress of Shadow… hear my voice!”

Around the three of them, the cavern is plunged into darkness, and an ethereal ball of light winks into existence atop the center platform.

“Ah, Karliah. I was wondering when I’d hear from you again. Lose something, did we?” Nocturnal asks.

Her voice is… Za’jhan-Dar does not so much hear it out loud as it seeps into him, wrapping itself around his senses. He has to take a moment to steady himself, to become accustomed to the net Nocturnal’s voice casts over his sight, his smell.

“My Lady,” Karliah says, sounding like she’s bracing herself for something, “I’ve come before you to throw myself upon your mercy and to accept responsibility for my failure.”

“You’re already mine, Karliah,” Nocturnal says. “Your terms were struck long ago. What more could you possibly offer me now?”

“I have two others who wish to transact the Oath; to serve you both in life and death. And… I have something to return to you, My Lady, that was stolen a long time ago,” Karliah says. She reaches into one of the folds of her cloak and withdraws the Grey Cowl of Nocturnal. “Your Cowl.”

“You have pleased me, Karliah,” Nocturnal says. Her essence glows brighter for a moment, until it almost hurts to look—especially for Za’jhan-Dar—but he keeps his eyes trained on her. “But this offer is clearly weighted in my favor.”

“My appetite for Mercer’s demise exceeds my craving for wealth, Your Grace,” Karliah says, bowing her head even further. “If I had anything else to give, I would lay it down before you without any hesitation.”

“Revenge? I see. How interesting. The conditions are acceptable. You may proceed,” Nocturnal says.

“Lady Nocturnal, we accept your terms. We dedicate ourselves to you as both your avengers and your sentinels. We will honor this agreement in this life and the next until your conditions have been met.”

“Very well. I name your initiates Nightingales and I restore your status to the same, Karliah,” Nocturnal says. She pauses for a moment; Za’jhan-Dar waits attentively, eyes flickering between her and Karliah. “And in the future, I’d suggest you refrain from disappointing me again. Now, hold out my Cowl. I will reclaim it.”

Karliah presents the Cowl to its mistress. Before Za’jhan-Dar’s eyes, it becomes darker and darker, smaller and more liquid until it is black as night, dripping out of Karliah’s hands and into the shadows pooled at their feet.

Nocturnal sighs, and is gone. The cavern’s light returns.

“Huh,” Ak’Bhibi says, arms crossed. “I expected… I don’t know. _More._”

“More than Za’jhan-Dar ever saw from Nocturnal, in his time,” Za’jhan-Dar says.

“There’s _going_ to be more,” Karliah says, striding briskly toward the center platform. Za’jhan-Dar hears a slight tremor in her voice, but he won’t prod. “Let’s sit down a moment. Now, I can explain the full extent of Mercer’s betrayal.”

* * *

As soon as Karliah is finished explaining Mercer’s theft of the Skeleton Key, and the reason they hadn’t been able to become properly initiated, she shows them how to take their armor off.

“This is stupid,” Ak’Bhibi says, staring dubiously at the Nightingale symbol on his chestplate.

“This is a gift from our Lady,” Karliah says, but she looks embarrassed too. “It’s portable! And it’s not like you’re just going to be naked after you take it off. It just puts your old clothing back on. Very thoughtful of her, _wasn’t it?_”

“Yes, yes,” Ak’Bhibi says. He can see that Za’jhan-Dar has already taken his off and is holding a flat disk in his hand. He is fully clothed—which is a relief, because Ak’Bhibi wouldn’t put it past Karliah to prank them like that after all he’s put her through—in the simple hide armor he’d left Riften in.

(Ak’Bhibi had forced him to buy it. He hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of Za’jhan-Dar traveling the country in that eye-searing green glass armor. No one has made armor like that in over a hundred years. Hide is better any day.)

He sighs and presses his palm against the Nightingale symbol and feels his armor recede, almost like water, and concentrate under his hand. When it is all gone, he’s wearing his Guild leathers. They feel warm like he’s had them on the whole day, but he thought he felt the Nightingale armor on his skin. He wonders for a moment, then shrugs.

After that, he spies Za’jhan-Dar bustling around in the kitchen area, cooking something with, frankly, an obscene amount of cheese in it. Turns out the Nightingale pantries are well-stocked and the ingredients fresh even after years of neglect.

Ak’Bhibi will not question that, either.

They eat in silence.

“We’ll need to travel to Irkngthand immediately,” Karliah says once she’s polished off the last of her bowl. Ak’Bhibi doesn’t blame her. Whatever this abomination of cheese and greens is, it’s strangely delicious. He thinks the only thing it’s missing could be… ale, maybe. “I trust you both have travel supplies?”

“This one does,” Za’jhan-Dar confirms. “He has weapons and arrows and many potions for the journey. Do not ask him how he carries it all. Nobody wants to know.”

Ak’Bhibi shoots a look his way. “Oh, how mysterious. Following the way of Nocturnal already, I see.”

He knows it is the work of an enchanted bag. Za’jhan-Dar had explained it to him at some point—he does not remember when, but he’s certain he remembers it. Something about layering Fortify Carry Weight enchantments on it, and something to do with Alteration.

No matter that. Ak’Bhibi licks his spoon clean and sets his bowl to the side. “I have what I need to make it to Windhelm. Anything else I will get while we’re there. Hopefully, we will not stay long.”

Oh, how Ulfric Stormcloak would hate to hear of such plans.

“Two Khajiit and a Dunmer walk into Windhelm,” Karliah says, standing up. “Sounds like a bad joke.”

Ak’Bhibi snorts a surprised laugh. “I’m no more eager to be back in Ulfric’s hold than you. Wonderful, how his attitude makes it far colder than Winterhold.”

“What is Windhelm like?” Za’jhan-Dar asks. “You did not tell me about it.”

“Oh, it’s lovely. For the Nords, at least.” Ak’Bhibi says. “It’s nice enough if you keep your head down. I helped solve some murders there last summer. I guess… there’s Aventus Aretino…? Ah, but that dealt with murder, too.”

“I’m surprised they let you in long enough to help them,” Karliah says. She picks up her satchel and shrugs it over her shoulder. “But that’s Windhelm for you. Act like they’re all superior, accept your help when they’ve run out of options, then claim it was them all along.”

“Sounds like another organization I know,” Ak’Bhibi thinks, glancing to Za’jhan-Dar. “Do you know that it is the Aldmeri Dominion that claims responsibility for closing the Oblivion Gates on Tamriel? For stopping Mehrunes Dagon’s conquest of Nirn?”

Za’jhan-Dar visibly bristles, ears flat against his head.

“They—they defile Martin Septim’s image!” Za’jhan-Dar hisses. “His sacrifice, his death! Is everyone so eager to forget the face of the person who saved them?”

Ak’Bhibi frowns. “It has been a while… but mostly, the Dominion is loud. I may have mentioned it, but… the moons were gone for two years. The Thalmor took credit for bringing those back, too, to gain the trust of Elsweyr. Now, most of Tamriel is under some form of their control.” It is very strange, thinking of the time of Za’jhan-Dar as anything other than history. “Cyrodiil is…” He shakes his head. Maybe now is not the time to be bringing up the reality of the world.

Sometimes, he misses Bravil. He wonders how different it was when Za’jhan-Dar was alive—no doubt it was better back then, when it wasn’t run by gangs pushing skooma and the like.

Ah. But that is part of it’s charm..

Za’jhan-Dar takes a deep breath, fur flattening again, ears returning to their usual upright position.

“Okay—okay. It is no use worrying, this one supposes. He will not return to Cyrodiil any time soon, unless he finds some way to set up a Dragon Break. But even so, there is nothing there for him.”

Karliah interrupts their conversation with a soft, “Hey.”

“What is it?” Za’jhan-Dar asks.

“I… I kind of understand what it’s like, feeling like there’s no place to go home to. Knowing it, even,” Karliah says. She lets out a deep sigh. “The best I could do was to make my own home wherever I went. I keep making it every day. But now I don’t have to do it alone. The Nightingales are supposed to be closer than any family could ever be. We three are bound to each other under our Lady. No one else could ever know the Oath we swore. So… I guess my point is you can trust us to help you.”

Ak’Bhibi swallows, nodding. He may miss Bravil, but it was no home for him. For anyone. He had no home for a long time.

And now he is here.

“Karliah—” Za’jhan-Dar starts, but she cuts him off.

“I know, Za’jhan-Dar. But we should get going,” Karliah says. “We can take a wagon to Windhelm. I checked it out—there aren’t any good places to stop between Shor’s Stone and Kynesgrove, so we can stop in Shor’s stone and rest, slog it out all day, and rest again in Kynesgrove. The last leg of the trip will be short, only a few hours and to hit Windhelm. Then we can hoof it to Irkngthand.”

“This one has no disagreements,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “He is well-used to traveling all across the country on his own legs.”

“I am eager to see you get used to climbing icy terrain,” Ak’Bhibi says, chuckling at the thought. “Yes, let us be on our way.”

* * *

They reach Shor’s Stone in mid-morning, earlier than expected.

“Look,” Karliah says placatingly to their driver—a Nord named Hronvir, who hadn’t been happy to drive them anyway. “You can sleep in the back of the wagon! We’ll make sure no wolves or bandits come near.”

The wagon driver looks longingly toward Shor’s Stone.

“We have gold, if that’s what you want,” Karliah says, reaching for her sack of coins. “We need to get to Windhelm as fast as possible.”

“Works for me,” he says after a long moment of consideration, and snaps the reins.

The horses start the wagon moving again, and the three of them in the back settle down for the ride.

It is just past sunset when the wagon rolls to a stop. Za’jhan-Dar opens his eyes slowly, sleepily. He’s lethargic from basking in the sun all day, but Karliah and Ak’Bhibi pester him until he finally drags himself up and helps to set up a place to sleep for the night.

He finds himself glad to have something to do, though—gathering stones and wood for the fire pit, bringing out his beloved cooking pot, finding a nearby stream to fill it up with clear water and setting it to boil—they are all better, more entertaining than napping against Ak’Bhibi’s shoulder.

Za’jhan-Dar is dimly aware of Ak’Bhibi pulling various furs and blankets out of the wagon and putting together a makeshift bedroll, of Karliah slinging a quiver of arrows over her shoulder.

“I’ll go get us some food,” Karliah says. “You two know how to butcher a deer, right?”

Ak’Bhibi rolls his eyes. “Or course we do.”

She nods. “Hopefully I’ll be back soon.”

When she is out of sight, Ak’Bhibi turns to him and asks, “So, you know how to butcher a deer, right…?”

“Yes,” Za’jhan-Dar says exasperatedly. Ak’Bhibi laughs, quietly, as he continues. “This one spent more time in the wilderness than out of it. He would have died before now if he did not know how to prepare an animal.”

“Ah, it is not that—I am just. Out of practice when it comes to…” Ak’Bhibi makes a face. “Portioning. And you know your way around a knife better than I.”

“Yes, probably,” Za’jhan-Dar admits. “But he will need help for skinning it.”

Ak’Bhibi nods, flexing a claw. “See, _that_ I can do.”

“With a knife, you idiot,” Za’jhan-Dar says, huffing out a laugh.

“But this way is so much _easier._ You will see, this one is an expert with his—divines! Stop rubbing off on me! Your influence makes me sound like I’m from one of the caravans they keep out of the holds.”

“Never,” Za’jhan-Dar replies, grinning. But he stops to consider. “Well… your claws certainly are sharp… and we will be cooking it right away. But you will need more than your claws to pull the skin off.”

“You will see,” Ak’Bhibi says, leaning back as they wait.

Before too long, Karliah comes back with an average-sized buck in tow. Evidently, she’s cleaned out its organs and most of the blood is likely drained—far from here, Za’jhan-Dar hopes, or there will be wolves for them before the night is over.

Quartering it is a thankful break from the boredom, until it is finally done and all that’s left is for Za’jhan-Dar to cook it.

“How does bland deer soup sound?” Za’jhan-Dar asks.

Karliah shrugs. “Don’t care, as long as it gets me through the night. I’m used to eating rough. You need help, let me know. If you don’t, I’ll find somewhere to bury the leftover parts.”

Ak’Bhibi frowns. “I don’t suppose you still have some of that cheese…”

“This one always has cheese,” Za’jhan-Dar says, completely seriously. “Unless he has too much of it. In which case he will give it to our friend. Is there any salt in my bag? No, not that one—that one, yes.”

“I don’t see—wait, here it is.” Ak’Bhibi grabs a satchel full of it and tosses it over. “Damn. Nothing sweet in here is here. I should have brought a wine—why didn’t I bring a wine?”

“There is something sweet in the bag I didn’t tell you to look in,” Za’jhan-Dar says quietly, glancing over at the wagon driver—he’s busy tending to the horse right now, and likely can’t hear them. But it is better to be cautious.

After a long moment, Ak’Bhibi mutters, “_Oh._ Yes, that will do just fine.”

Za’jhan-Dar snorts and turns to his bland soup. Venison haunch, rubbed in pepper and salt, some leeks, half a fistful of salt for the broth, maybe a potato or two… after letting it sit on the flame for a while, Za’jhan-Dar hesitantly tastes it.

Watery. Unassuming. Perfect.

Za’jhan-Dar busies himself with ladling it out into some polished wooden bowls.

“Here. There is cheese in my _other_ other bag,” he says to Ak’Bhibi, passing the food around. He brings one over to the wagon driver, too, because he is just that nice. “Here is your bland soup.”

Ak’Bhibi, evidently, finds the cheese, as he puts a cube of it directly into his soup.

Karliah laughs into her bowl. Za’jhan-Dar has to smile too. Then he is eating, and his mind is consumed by blandness.

“This is,” Ak’Bhibi starts, swallowing, “This is. How would you describe this? All I taste is… soup. And cheese, of course.”

“This soup is his perfect creation,” Za’jhan-Dar says, thinking back on the sleepless nights he’d spent perfecting the recipe. “Something so tasteless yet so filling… it can only be achieved with too much water. It is so bland you cannot think of anything but how boring it is, yes? Yes.”

Karliah seems not to care—she’s already almost done with her soup, tipping the bowl back and drinking the rest of it.

Ak’Bhibi huffs. “Maybe you should stick with your alchemy instead.”

Karliah’s eyes widen as she finishes, coughing a bit with a small smile on her face.

“Yes,” she says at long last. “This soup is utterly unremarkable. I don’t know how you managed it. But that’s not what I wanted to say—it’s dark now. This means we can talk.”

“In front of the wagon driver?” Za’jhan-Dar asks, taking a wary glance over at their companion.

“I have ways to ensure he doesn’t hear a thing,” Karliah says smugly. She makes an odd twisting motion with her hand, pulling some invisible thing toward herself, and the shadows around them lengthen until they’re nearly nipping at Za’jhan-Dar’s heels. “There we go. It feels nice to do that. I haven’t been able to since I lost favor with Nocturnal.”

“Well.” Ak’Bhibi leans back, looking around them. “How convenient. How did you do that?”

Karliah sighs. “It’s one of Nocturnal’s blessings. A skill you cannot unlock with the Skeleton Key still lost—but once it is returned, you will be free to choose which of the Nightingale powers you will take, at least for the time being. You can always change which one you hold. It is one of the _many_ perks of serving Nocturnal.”

Ak’Bhibi nods, saying, “Interesting, interesting… so the driver cannot hear us, then?”

“That is correct.”

“Wonderful. Za’jhan-Dar, when we are away from prying eyes I _am_ taking a lick of your moon sugar, and there is nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Za’jhan-Dar packed extra because he knew you would take some,” Za’jhan-Dar says, shrugging. “No need to wait. The wagon driver is lying down to sleep. He is gone beneath the side of the wagon, see? Maybe this one will follow his lead…”

Za’jhan-Dar looks over to the bedding they’d spread out on the ground. Not a comfortable bed, by any means, and small enough that the three of them will be squished up against each other, but it will at least be warm.

“Hey, wait, someone needs to take watch,” Karliah protests. “We’re fairly close to the main road, and I made sure to bury any leftovers, but you never know when a group of bandits could come across us.”

“This one will cast a Paralysis Rune, then,” Za’jhan-Dar offers. “If anyone but us crosses over it, it will paralyze them. Za’jhan-Dar is too tired to take watch.”

“We will start with the watching later,” Ak’Bhibi agrees. “For now, we will rest easy. Perhaps I will wake early instead, and sate my sweet tooth in the morning.”

“There really isn’t enough room for the three of us, though,” Karliah says, pointing toward their tiny nest of furs. “Unless we spread them all very thin, one of us will have to stay out of it anyway.”

“There is. We will simply have to fit in very close,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Unless you are not comfortable…?”

“I—oh,” Karliah says. She looks down at her hands for a moment. “It hadn’t even crossed my mind. I guess it would be—it just took me by surprise a little. I mean, it’s been so long since I… and… this sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all. You have been alone for so long, it is hard to come into contact with others, yes?” Za’jhan-Dar asks. “This one does not say it to be cruel. Only because he has been there many times. If you think you will like to do something, there is nothing wrong in enjoying it. Even for something like physical touch. This one has no expectations for you. There is nothing he wants except for your comfort.”

Karliah nods, but she does not move forward.

Ak’Bhibi flops down onto the furs, beckoning lazily. “Karliah, you are welcome to do as you wish. You know this. But you will become quite cold away from us—surely, it is in your benefit to use us to stay warm through the night, no? I know I am warm myself.”

For how brazen Ak’Bhibi tends to be, Za’jhan-Dar can’t help but think he always knows what to say.

He quickly calls magicka to himself, focusing on what he knows: Karliah and Ak’Bhibi and Hronvir are not his enemy, and anyone, or thing, else is. He lets the power flow from himself onto the ground, and when he is done a sickly green rune is inscribed upon the ground, big enough to surround them all.

Then he follows Ak’Bhibi’s example, laying back on the furs and wriggling around in them until he’s comfortable.

After a lengthy pause, Karliah joins them, bunched in tight between the two. There is silence for a while, where all of them are a little hesitant to speak, and then she exhales slowly.

“This is okay,” Karliah says, sounding surprised at herself. “I feel okay. You’re right, Ak’Bhibi. This is warm.”

“Good,” Za’jhan-Dar says simply, closing his eyes and relaxing against her.

Slowly, the tension bleeds out of Karliah, too, and her breathing evens out.

For a while there is nothing but the sound of their little fire crackling, of animals that come awake during the small hours, the feeling of warmth against Za’jhan-Dar’s right side, the knowledge that he is not alone.

In the morning, when he wakes up, he is tangled limb for limb with Ak’Bhibi and Karliah. He takes a moment to enjoy it, to savor in their warmth and let a purr bubble up in his throat before he remembers there are places to go and things to do, and he quickly upsets their pile.

* * *

The less said about their excursion into Windhelm, the better.

Soon they’re off again, on foot this time, following the winding body of the river Yorgrim. The plan is to go far enough to reach the lake, and then climb the mountain directly south—Karliah tells them Irkngthand is noticeable from the outside. There’s no chance they will miss it.

The journey there is set to the sounds of them swapping quiet stories, drawn from their own experiences and embellished to become tales.

“I have never seen a creature with more heart than a Nord,” Ak’Bhibi starts, “save for the mudcrab that once tried to best a dragon in combat. Sadly, it did not make it, or I would have kept it as a faithful and stalwart companion. If it did not attack me back, that is.”

“Sad times when a mudcrab cannot even defeat one measly dragon,” says Za’jhan-Dar. “But good to know they still persist. In Za’jhan-Dar’s time, mudcrabs were fearsome, violent, and mean-spirited. He once saw one fight a troll and come out on top. Truly, this speaks toward the sheer might of a dragon.”

“They have not changed,” Ak’Bhibi says. “The mudcrab I fought alongside with was a better ally than most guards prove to be.”

“Ah, reminds me of a job I took once,” Karliah says. “I botched it, big-time. I was supposed to rob someone living out in Hjaalmarch, near Morthal. This was early in my career in the Thieves Guild, so I didn’t have half the tricks up my sleeve that I do now. I was caught and injured, and after I fled, I collapsed somewhere in the marsh. I remember hearing this awful clicking sound—it was a giant mudcrab, bigger than any you’ve ever seen. It almost took my leg off. I killed it, of course, but the experience has left me with a hearty respect for mudcrabs.”

Ak’Bhibi nods, smiling at the image of a victorious Karliah, covered in mud, standing atop her fallen foe. He may imagine it more humorously than he should. “Mudcrabs are worthy adversaries. Though, their taste is to be debated.”

“Za’jhan-Dar only finds them useful in alchemy,” he says. “Their meat can be used in potions and poisons, though it is difficult to preserve for long enough. He has to set up his alchemy where he kills them, sometimes.”

“That makes sense. I find mudcrab to fall apart when separated from their chitin. It reminds me of—well, it reminds me of dragons. Ah… I suppose most things do, now.”

Ak’Bhibi frowns, thinking that maybe he should seek out making different memories. But they passed Kynesgrove on their journey, and it has been hard to think of anything other than Delphine and Alduin, who’s booming voice has distracted him from thinking of anything else. He remembers the only words he understood through their exchange—

_“You do not even know our tongue, do you? Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah.”_

Ak’bhibi hates that on some level he agrees.

“You are thinking too much,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Something is what it is. Does that make sense?”

Ak’Bhibi looks at him. “No. It does not.”

“Maybe this one started his day off with a bit too much moon sugar… he means to say that if you connect everything to dragons, you will begin to hate everything. If you think something that is not a dragon is not like a dragon, think instead of all the ways it is different from one,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Maybe that makes more sense. It is what Za’jhan-Dar told to himself to keep his mind off Oblivion.”

“That does,” Ak’Bhibi says. “I—that is good advice. It is just… hard to stop thinking of them.” He sighs. “It helps that they are not all evil. Or, at least, there is one that is willing to work with me. Durnehviir. He is rather helpful against his own kind.”

“You made an ally out of a dragon?” Karliah asks. “I’m impressed.”

Ak’Bhibi waves a hand. “You need not be. His soul is trapped in another realm, and only I can summon him here. He simply misses the sky, and he pays what he wants for the opportunity to stretch his wings. That is all.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence after that, until the sun sets again and they set up camp for the night. Again, Karliah brings them a fresh kill and again, Za’jhan-Dar concocts his bland soup. The three of them fall asleep tangled together, snug as they can be, a far cry from yesterday night’s awkwardness, and Ak’Bhibi wonders if this is what being a Nightingale is all about. He could get used to this closeness, this comfort. It reminds him a bit of the Companions, but it is unique in its own right.

Mercer Frey is even more stupid than Ak’Bhibi thought, to ruin something like this for himself. And for Karliah, too, who had hesitated to even indulge in something so small.

As he dozes off, he nuzzles in a bit closer to her and hopes she finds comfort in it.

* * *

In the morning, they pack up, and continue their ascent of the mountain. Halfway up the mountain, the temperature takes a drastic plunge, biting through even their Nightingale armor. Za’jhan-Dar fishes around in one of his bags for a moment, and withdraws three Rings of Waning Frost. He distributes them among his fellow Nightingales, glad to have remembered bringing them.

Two hours later, they reach Irkngthand.

“Hold a moment,” Karliah says, going still. “There are bandits here. We’ll have to sneak past them.”

She twists her hand again and the shadows around the Dwemer ruins creep up on them.

“This one has invisibility potions to use now. He thought they would come in handy,” Za’jhan-Dar says, passing one to Ak’Bhibi and one to Karliah.

“Convenient,” Karliah says approvingly, tipping hers back. “But it tastes foul.”

“It is the price to pay for quality,” Za’jhan-Dar says simply.

“I am used to it,” Ak’Bhibi says. “I have had entirely too many of these potions.”

Sneaking past the bandits is laughably easy. There seems to be no one in the main plaza of the abandoned city, so Karliah makes for the side across from them, and the only sign of her is the shallow footprints she leaves in her wake.

Snow dusts the ancient Dwemer courtyard; around them, bronze-stone towers reach up toward the sky, boxing them in. In front of them lies a pair of huge doors and a lever. Altogether it makes for an imposing sight.

“Mercer’s definitely been here,” Karliah says, stopping near the relatively ice-free handle of the lever. “And recently, too. He’s probably ahead of us by a few hours. I’m disturbed to think we could have been sleeping close to him.”

Ak’Bhibi scoffs. “He is a coward, and yet he chose not to strike us in our sleep? It is a wonder how he has made it this far, being the idiot that he is. I cannot wait to see his face when my claws finally meet it.”

“I can’t begin to describe how much I look forward to that,” Karliah drawls, pulling back on the lever and shimmering into view.

The doors glide open almost silently. It’s a testament to how advanced Dwemer technology is, that it’s survived in almost perfect condition for the many hundreds of years since the Dwemer disappeared.

Quickly, they walk inside and out of the cold, door closing abruptly behind them and plunging them into near-darkness. Torches line the room, illuminating—

_That is a lot of bodies,_ Za’jhan-Dar thinks, stepping further into the room. He hears Karliah groan beside him, shoulders pulled back as she strides forward to inspect the carnage.

She hisses, “Mercer—I cannot believe him! He desecrates the Twilight Sepulcher, steals the Skeleton Key, betrays Nocturnal and her Nightingales—all of this and he can’t even manage to sneak past mere bandits?”

Za’jhan-Dar is unable to hide his disdain. He is not against killing, not by any margin, but this is not the art of blade and blood, arrow and poison, struggle and death—this is only a sign of Mercer’s disregard for Nocturnal.

“At least he made it easier for us,” Za’jhan-Dar says, stepping over one of the bodies. “Now let us hope he did not rearm any of the traps he got past.”

In hindsight, that wasn’t the smartest thing to say—half an hour later finds them mired in numerous traps that Mercer had, apparently, figured out how to reset.

Za’jhan-Dar stumbles back into Ak’Bhibi when a blade trap spins to life out of nowhere, sputtering with curses as he searches for his footing.

“Damn you, Mercer!” he curses. “After Za’jhan-Dar’s tail again… his dishonor knows no bounds.”

Ak’Bhibi smacks him in the shoulder as he walks past. “You and your tail, so attached…”

“This one’s tail has saved him from death so many times,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “His balance would not be the same without it… his precious tail…”

“My tail tended towards getting me _caught,_” Ak’Bhibi grumbles, stepping around the pieces of a destroyed Dwemer spider. “It is not so hard to get used to having less. Sometimes it is even better.”

“Maybe I should be glad I don’t have one,” Karliah says, deftly shooting a tripwire with one of her arrows and pulling Za’jhan-Dar back before he is caught in the rain of metal pellets. “Look, the ruins are petering out into a cave system. We’re going to run into Falmer soon.”

“Falmer? They live here?” Za’jhan-Dar asks.

“Well… I’m not absolutely sure about here, specifically, but most Dwemer cities house Falmer, yes. So there’s a good chance they’ll be here—and they tend to poison their blades,” Karliah warns, forging ahead in front of them. “At least this means we won’t have to deal with more spiders. Oh, Nocturnal, I hate those things.”

They emerge into a huge, cavernous room—Dwemer towers and ramps and structures litter the land, half sunk into the earth. Among them are scattered tents, and as Za’jhan-Dar’s Night Eye kicks in, he can spy a number of pale, hunched figures moving about beneath them.

They are separated from the Falmer by a sheer drop and a massive bronze fence that stretches all the way to the ceiling. Their only choice is to follow the narrow corridor and descend the ramp, going past the Falmer encampments.

“Carefully,” Karliah says, and begins to cross the stone walkway. Before she can get so far, her eyes widen at something she sees below and she drops into a crouch. “Wait—shit! That’s Mercer! Get down, get down.”

Za’jhan-Dar crouches just in time to watch Mercer glance in their direction, then back to the Falmer he crouches behind. He kills it with ease, scanning the room before continuing through and out of it.

“Did he see us?” Ak’Bhibi says when he stands—too soon for Za’jhan-Dar’s comfort, but he cannot hear Mercer, so he supposes it is safe.

“I don’t think so, but be on your guard,” Karliah says. “It must have taken him much longer than us to progress through the cavern. He’s losing his touch—Nocturnal is reclaiming his luck. Or maybe he’s just getting old.”

Za’jhan-Dar laughs quietly. “Seems like he has been stealing years, too.”

From the corner of his eye he can see Ak’Bhibi shoot him an amused look before taking off in front of them. Soon he is holding up an open hand, ears swiveling around. He jerks his head to the side and walks closer to the opposite wall, which Za’jhan-Dar takes as a signal to follow.

He notices the Falmer walking towards where they stood, and he breathes out silent relief until Ak’Bhibi freezes.

There is a Falmer looking directly at them, mere paces ahead. It cannot look at them without eyes, but its head is tilted back and its ears are straining forward ever so slightly.

Za’jhan-Dar panics and summons a Daedroth, which roars, alerting every single Falmer in the room to their presence.

The bad thing is that there are twenty or so of them.

The good thing is that the Daedroth is strong enough to pick one up and snap in half, which should make Za’jhan-Dar feel sick to his stomach, but he’s been exposed to the sight often enough to consider it only a minor annoyance.

Karliah and Ak’Bhibi are inky black blurs among the Falmer, blades and claws flashing in the dim light, silently cutting through their enemies. Za’jhan-Dar plays backup, picking them off with his bow and arrow whenever he sees an opening.

Ak’Bhibi spits when he slashes through the neck of the last one, blood spraying over his armor and his face.

“This one apologizes,” Za’jhan-Dar says, crouching down amongst the fallen Falmer to retrieve any salvageable arrows. “He has never been up close to a Falmer. Undoubtedly, Mercer has heard the commotion and knows we are here.”

After a moment of hesitation, he cuts off a few of the ears of the Falmer and stores them in one of his enchanted bags. He’d never had the chance to use them in alchemy for himself, has only read about their effects in old books, dusty with neglect. He ruthlessly crushes the seed of guilt that threatens to rise in his chest.

“No matter,” Karliah says, cleaning her blade. “He is overconfident. He has no idea Nocturnal has turned her back on him. When we bring him before our Lady, he will know the true extent of his folly.”

Ak’Bhibi flicks the red from his hands—it looks like it will stain, but Za’jhan-Dar does not point that out just now—and continues on with a quiet, “Good.”

They reach the entrance Mercer had disappeared through, a narrow, rocky tunnel lit by glowing mushrooms. Za’jhan-Dar stealthily pockets a few to use in his potions, but for the most part he follows suit on high alert for danger.

The end of the tunnel leads them into a dim, misty cave filled with blade traps, old rusted torture racks, and a multitude of Falmer tents.

Za’jhan-Dar silently casts Muffle around the three of them, and then Night Eye on Karliah. She nods at him, and together the three of them creep past the Falmer encampment with bated breath.

Again, a tunnel, and at the end of the tunnel, a door.

Behind the door: Mercer Frey and the Snow Elf statue.

* * *

The Eyes of the Falmer are larger than Ak’Bhibi had imagined they would be. Somehow, he did not realize how large this statue really was. Now, standing in the same room as it, he understands, and he wants one of them more than ever.

“There he is,” Karliah whispers, pointing towards a figure standing on the platform in front of the Falmer’s face, prying the second Eye out of it. “He hasn’t seen us yet. We can make our way up to him and—”

Ak’Bhibi is already taking half a step forward when he feels his eyes lock with Mercer’s.

“Karliah, when will you learn you can’t get the drop on me?” he sneers.

There is only a second, when Ak’Bhibi feels something in the air that just about vibrates his whiskers out of his face, and then the stone platform underneath them crumbles away.

“Better be careful, Ak’Bhibi,” Mercer says, “When Brynjolf brought you before me, I could feel a sudden shift in the wind. I knew it would end with one of us at the end of a blade. I just thought that end would come much earlier.”

“I do not use blades,” Ak’Bhibi spits, scrambling to his feet. “And yet you will be the one who will fall by my hand. You and the Skeleton Key will be brought back to Nocturnal, one way or another. I swear it.”

Mercer slips the left Eye of the Falmer into a thick leather sack.

“What's Karliah been filling your head with? Tales of thieves with honor? Oaths rife with falsehoods and broken promises?” He laughs. “Nocturnal doesn't care about you, the Key, or anything having to do with the Guild.”

“To be frank, I don’t give a fuck about Nocturnal, either.” Ak’Bhibi hears Karliah make a harsh noise from beside him, but he will smooth _that_ over after they finish here. “But I am a Nightingale now. You can see that. I need the Key as much as I need the Eyes.”

Mercer’s head tilts. “Perhaps Karliah and Brynjolf misjudged you, then, as someone far more unlike myself. But, like you said, you three are Nightingales now, so it doesn’t really matter, does it? You’ll all die by my sword either way.”

Za’jhan-Dar shifts behind him, no doubt moving to hide his tail. It is better if Mercer thinks he is Brynjolf; he will be caught unaware by Za’jhan-Dar’s preference toward magic. Instead, he unsheathes his claws and lunges forward into a run.

Mercer says, “Karliah, I'll deal with you _later,_” and promptly goes invisible.

Unlucky for him that Ak’Bhibi is Khajiit. He cannot see him, and he can barely hear him, but like most other races he forgets about smell. He follows Mercer up the stairs, looking for the ripple of what he has come to understand as Illusion magicka around him.

Still, Mercer gets in the first hit. Ak’Bhibi feels the blade slash against his armor, and despite the material holding fast he feels a cut form beneath it, wetness bleeding down his abdomen. His armor tightens more there, compressing down on the wound.

He ignores it in favor of lashing back, pleased to find blood spurt from where his claws connect, Mercer flickering back in and out of visibility.

Ak’Bhibi manages to sink his other hand into the thin leather on Mercer’s side, ripping at it and the skin beneath, but Mercer is deft with his weapon and slices back with his sword. It hurts worse than the first hit, leaving him breathless and blinking away stars. Mercer is gone again when he recovers.

In his right ear, he hears a snarl, and Za’jhan-Dar is darting forward, glowing white magicka pooling around his hands. In the next moment, Mercer loses his invisibility, and Karliah lets loose an arrow that strikes Mercer in the leg. He stumbles backward, shoving Za’jhan-Dar away as he braces against the back of the statue.

“What?!” Mercer yells, breaking the arrow off where it meets his calf with a wince. His eyes shift between Karliah, Za’jhan-Dar, and Ak’Bhibi rapidly—it is easy to pinpoint the exact moment Mercer realizes Brynjolf isn’t here. “Surely Brynjolf would have a better choice than this—this _nobody,_ Karliah!”

Ak’Bhibi likes leaving him in the dark about Za’jhan-Dar. Instead of explaining, he breathes in and lets loose an echoing _Zun._ The room almost seems to shudder, but then again, the whole cave system had seemed a bit unstable as they got deeper.

Mercer’s sword flies from his hand, clattering noisily as it falls to the waters below. He sputters. The scent of fear becomes apparent enough to make Ak’Bhibi sneeze.

“This was almost too easy,” Karliah says, sauntering over to them from the other side of the room. She pulls the face mask down as she crouches in front of Mercer. “What was that about never getting the drop on you again?”

“You’ll regret—” Mercer begins, but before he can finish the sentence, a pipe high above their heads shatters, spraying cold water over all four of them.

“No!” Za’jhan-Dar shrieks, swatting at the stream and moving as far as he can out of the way as he can. It is not far enough. Ak’Bhibi would laugh if it wasn’t becoming clear that the water level is rising by the second. It is already overtaking the feet of the statue, inching up the knees.

Karliah looks up for a second, then takes a belt off from one of her packs and ties it around Mercer’s wrists, padlocking it when she’s finished. “If you choose not to cooperate, you will not die. We will drag you out of here and keep you alive as long as we need to present you to Nocturnal—_if_ you cooperate, you will have a marginally easier time of things. Do I make myself clear?”

“And,” Za’jhan-Dar starts, cutting off Mercer’s retort, “If you try to escape while we are getting out of here, you will quickly discover just how skilled this one is in Illusion spells.”

Mercer stares at them, then winces and looks down at his leg.

“_Fine,_” he grumbles, taking a wide-eyed glance at the fast-rising water.

Ak’Bhibi fishes through his pockets until he finds the necklace he’s looking for—his Gillgranter, enchanted just for situations just like these. He slides off the hood to put it on, yelping when he gets freezing water in his eyes and ears.

“We need to find a way out,” Karliah says, roughly forcing Mercer to his feet.

“The way we came through is already too deep,” Za’jhan-Dar says, pulling out another ring and handing it to Karliah. “It would be near impossible to open the doors underwater. We will have to hope there is an escape at the top.”

“Do you think the Skeleton Key or a shout could open it?” Ak’Bhibi asks, and Karliah opens her mouth, pauses, and narrows her eyes.

“Maybe,” she says, “but we wouldn’t be able to swim down there with this current anyway. If there is no exit above… hopefully, we won’t have to try.”

Waiting is the worst part. Waiting for the water to rise, to carry them up toward the far-off ceiling. From the corner of his eye, he spies Za’jhan-Dar chugging potions and casting spells like he won’t ever get the chance to do so again.

When it reaches up to their chests, the fire in the statue’s staff goes out. Shadows fill the room, though there is a dim light that proves there _must_ be some other exit.

“I will take the far end of the room,” Ak’Bhibi says, beginning to tread water. “You two… and Mercer… search behind the statue for an exit.”

“Never been more glad to be a strong swimmer,” Karliah says, yanking Mercer along with her by his wrist bindings. He looks downright _pissed,_ but he does not struggle much against her. Thankfully.

Ak’Bhibi’s teeth chatter as he navigates the dark waters, struggling to keep his head above water—he may be able to breathe under it, but he wishes to avoid being submerged as much as possible. Each time he is forced under he comes up with dulled senses, pipes thundering through water-logged eardrums, making it harder to find up from down.

“Ak’Bhibi!” Karliah calls. Her voice is nearly undetectable over the roaring flood. “We found—”

The rest of her sentence is cut off, but Ak’Bhibi has heard enough to begin swimming toward her as quickly as possible. His feet and fingers are becoming numb from the cold. His side aches from where it is bleeding. He pushes on anyway, skirting along the current and trying not to move directly under the ever-widening spray of water.

His eye catches on the dull red glow of Mercer’s sword, beckoning him into the depths, and he hesitates.

When he looks back, he sees Mercer—hands unbound, one with a white-kuckle grip on the Skeleton Key—dragging Karliah beneath the water by the belt looped around her neck.

He tries to Shout, but he coughs as water fills his open mouth. Spitting, he claws towards them, cursing himself for straying so far away.

Finally, _finally,_ he reaches them, yanking Mercer back by his hair and slicing through the belt with ease. Mercer’s eyes are wide and wild, and in the dim green light of the cavern waters he looks many years older than Ak’Bhibi remembers. He almost feels pity, but then he remembers everything Mercer has done, and instead he feels disgust.

Everything is slower when he is underwater—the way Karliah turns around with bluer lips than he’s ever seen, vivid even against her ashy skin, the way Mercer’s hands twist and turn with mesmerizing motion, the way an aura rocks through Ak’Bhibi and leaves him frozen with pain.

With it, everything that is not already numb prickles like something is eating away at his very being. Ak’Bhibi wonders if this is what it feels like for a dragon to die by his hand—but he knows that must feel worse. Quickly, all feeling drains, until he is unable to move in the slightest.

Just as Karliah reaches for one of her floating arrows, as Za’jhan-Dar shouts something unintelligible, Ak’Bhibi blacks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps.... thy 2 all u lovely readers........ u are the butter to our bread....... <3 <3 <3  
-alex

**Author's Note:**

> if you like these boies, you can learn more about them at the [discord server](https://discord.gg/4jp2mfN)! featuring toddbot, horrible fanart by us, and more. we promise we don't bite!
> 
> falterth also has various social media! if you're interested, check aer profile for links =)
> 
> pls comment lol we are like super desperate  
-falterth


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